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HANS     ANDERSEN'S 


STORY  BOOK. 


A    MEMOIR    BY    MARY    HOWITT, 


ILL  U8TBA  TJON&. 


JX: 


"Neto  Yorft  anti  SSoston: 
C.    S.     FRANCIS     AND     COMPANY, 


M.DCOC.LX 


CONTENTS 


MEMOIR  OF  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  ^  *"7'^^- 
A  PICTURE-BOOK  WITHOUT  PICTURES         -    3a  ' 

MY  BOOTS    '- 125^ 

^  SCENES  ON  THE  DANUBE        -        -        -        -  133 

M'HE  SWINEHERD       .....  .J€4  itl^ 

THE  REAL  PRINCESS  -        -        -        -        -  173 


THE  SHOES  OF  FORTUNE: 

I.  A  Beginning      -         -        -                  .        .  7 

II.  What  Befel  the  Councillor        -         -        -  11 

III.  The  Watchman's  Adventure      -         -         -  25 

IV.  A  Moment  of  Head  Importance — An  Eve- 

ning's "  Dramatic  Readings  " — A  most 

strange  Journey     ...                  -  38 

V.  The  Metamorphosis  of  the  Copying-Clerk  49 

VI.  The  best  that  the  Galoshes  gave         -         -  <»6 

THE  FIR  TREE -  '5 


n  CO  NTS  NTS. 

^r^HB  SNOW-QUEEN— IN  Seven  Storiies: 

T.  Which   treats  of  a   Mirror,  and   of  the 
Splinters         ..--.- 
11.  A  Little  Boy  aud  a  Little  Girl  -        -        - 
ni.  The  Flower-Garden  ----- 

IV.  The  Prince  and  Princess  -         -         -         - 

V.  The  Little  Ptobber-Maiden         -         -         - 

VT.  The   Lapland    Woman  and    the   Finland 

Woman  ------ 

VII.  The  Palace  of  the  Snow-Queen  -        -        - 
J^^sdTHE  LEAP-FROG 


the  old  house      -      .      .      - 

the  drop  of  water     - 

the  happy  family 

the  story  of  a  mother    - 

the  false  collar 

the  shadow '\ 

-"^  -the  old  street  lamp  - 

the  dream  of  little  tuk 

the  naughty  boy  - 

the  two  neighboring  families 

the  darning  needle   - 
;7^'the  little  match-girl 

the  red  shoes 


94 

97 
108 
121 
133 

142 
149 
137 


9 

25 

29 

36 

47 

52 

78 

92 

102 

107 

128 

135 

141 


MEMOIR  OF   HANS   C.   ANDERSEN: 

BY  MARY   HOWITT  : 

A  PICTURE-BOOK  WITHOUT  PICTURES, 

AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


MEMOIR. 


Whether  regarded  as  the  human  being  as- 
serting in  his  own  person  the  true  nobility  of 
mind  and  moral  worth,  or  the  man  of  genius, 
whose  works  alone  have  raised  him  from  the 
lowest  poverty  and  obscurity,  to  be  an  honor- 
ed guest  with  kings  and  queens,  Hans  Chris- 
tian Andersen  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  his  day. 

Like  most  men  of  great  original  talent,  he 
is  emphatically  one  of  the  people ;  and  writ 
ing  as  he  has  done,  principally  of  popular 
life,  he  describes  what  he  himself  has  suffered 
and  seen.  Poverty  or  hardship,  however, 
never  soured  his  mind ;  on  the  contrary, 
whatever  he  has  written  is  singularly  genial, 
and  abounds  with  the  most  kindly"and  uni- 
versal  sympathy.  Human  Ufe,  with  all  its, 
9 


10  MEMOIR    OF 

:  trials,  privations,  and  its  tears,  is  to  him  a  holy 
I  thing  ;  he  lays  bare  the  heart,  not  to  bring 
(forth  hidden  and  revolting  passions  or  crimes, 
ibut  to  show  how  lovely  it  is  in  its  simplicity 
/and  truth :  how  touching  in  its  weaknesses 
and  its  short-commgs  ;  how  much  it  is  to  be 
loved  and  pitied,  and  borne  and  striven  with. 
In  short,  this  great  writer,  with  all  the  ardor 
of  a  strong  poetical  nature,  and  with  great 
power  in  delineating  passion,  is  eminently 
\  Christian  in  spirit. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  that  I  have 
been  the  means  of  making  the  principal 
works  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen  known, 
through  my  translations,  to  English  readers ; 
they  have  been  well  received  by  them,  and  I 
now  give  a  slight  memoir  of  their  author, 
drawn  from  the  True  Story  of  his  own  Life, 
sent  by  him  to  me  for  translation,  and  which 
has  lately  been  published. 

The  father  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
was  a  shoemaker  of  Odense.  When  scarcely 
twenty,  he  married  a  young  girl  about  as 
poor  as  himself.  The  poverty  of  this  couple 
may  be  imagined  from  the  circumstance  that 
the  house  afforded  no  better  bedstead  than  a 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  11 

wooden  frame,  made  to  support  the  cofibi  of 
some  count  in  the  neighborhood,  whose  body 
lay  in  state  before  his  interment.  This  frame, 
covered  with  black  cloth,  and  which  the 
young  shoemaker  purchased  at  a  very  low 
price,  served  as  the  family  bedstead  many 
years.  Upon  this  humble  bed  was  born,  on 
the  second  of  April,  1805,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen. 

The  father  of  Andersen  was  not  without 
education ;  his  mother  was  the  kindest  of 
human  beings  ;  they  lived  on  the  best  terms 
with  each  other,  but  still  the  husband  was 
not  happy.  He  read  comedies  and  the  Ara- 
^bian  Tales,  and  made  a  puppet  theatre  for 
his  little  son,  and  often  on  Sundays  took  him 
out  with  him  into  the  woods  round  Odense, 
where  the  solitude  was  congenial  to  his  mind. 

Andersen's  grandmother  had  also  great 
influence  over  him,  and  to  her  he  was  greatly 
attached.  She  was  employed  in  taking  care 
of  a  garden  belonging  to  a  lunatic  asylum, 
and  here  he  spent  most  of  the  summer  after- 
noons of  his  early  childhood. 

Among  his  earliest  recollections  is^  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Spaniards  in  Funen,  in  the  years 


12  MEMOIR    OP 

1808  and  1809.  A  soldier  of  an  Asturian 
regiment  took  him  one  day  in  his  arms, 
danced  with  him  amid  tears  of  joy,  which  no 
doubt  were  called  forth  by  the  remembrance 
of  a  child  he  had  left  at  home,  and  pressed 
the  Madonna  to  his  lips,  which  occasioned 
great  trouble  to  his  pious  mother,  who  was  a 
Lutheran. 

In  Odense  at  that  time  many  old  festivities 
were  still  in  use,  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  the  boy,  and  were  as  so  much  mate- 
rial laid  up  in  his  richly  poetical  mind  for 
after  use,  as  all  who  are  familiar  with  his 
works  must  be  well  aware.  His  father, 
among  other  works,  industriously  read  in  his 
Bible.  One  day  he  closed  it  with  these  words  : 
"Christ  became  a  man  like  unto  us,  but  a 
very  uncommon  man  ! "  at  which  his  wife 
burst  into  tears,  greatly  distressed  and  shock- 
ed at  what  she  called  "  blasphemy."  This 
made  a  deep  impres'sion  on  the  boy,  and  he 
prayed  in  secret  for  the  soul  of  his  father. 
Another  day  his  father  said,  "  There  is  no 
other  devil  but  what  a  man  bears  in  his  own 
breast ! "  After  which,  finding  his  arm 
scratched  one  morning  when  he  awoke,  his 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  13 

wife  said  it  was  a  punishment  of  the  devil,  to 
teach  him  his  real  existence. 

The  unhappy  teniper  of  the  father  increas- 
ed from  day  to  day  ;  he  longed  to  go  forth 
into  the  world.  At  that  time  war  was  raging 
in  Germany.  Napoleon  was  his  hero,  and 
as  Denmark  had  now  allied  itself  to  France, 
he  enlisted  as  a  private  soldier  in  a  recruiting 
regiment,  hoping  that  some  time  or  other  he 
mit^ht  return  as  a  lieutenant.  The  neio^hbors, 
however,  thought  it  was  all  a  folly  to  let  him- 
self be  shot  for  no  purpose  at  all.  The  corps 
in  which  he  served  went  no  farther  than  Hol- 
stein  ;  the  peace  succeeded,  and  the  poor  shoe- 
mal^er  returned  to  his  trade,  only  chagrined 
to  have  seen  no  service,  nor  even  been  in  for- 
eign lands.  But  though  he  had  seen  no  ser- 
vice, his  health  had  suffered  }  he  awoke  one 
morning  delirious,  and  talked  about  cam- 
paigns and  Napoleon.  Young  Andersen, 
then  nine  years  old,  was  sent  to  the  next  vil- 
lage to  ask  counsel  from  a  wise  woman. 

"  Will  my  poor  father  die  ?"  inquired  he, 
anxiously. 

"  If  thy  father  will  die,"  replied  she,  "  thou 
wilt  meet  his  ghost  on  thy  way  home." 


14  MEMOIR    OF 

Terrified  almost  out  of  his  senses  lest  he 
should  meet  the  ghost,  he  set  out  on  his 
homeward  way,  and  reached  his  own  door 
without  any  such  apparition  presenting  itself, 
but  for  all  that,  his  father  died  on  the  third 
day. 

From  this  time  young  Andersen  was  left 
to  himself  The  whole  instruction  that  he 
ever  received  was  in  a  charity-school,  and 
consisted  of  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic, 
but  of  the  two  last  he  knew  scarcely  any- 
thing. 

About  this  time  he  was  engaged  by  the 
widow  of  a  clergyman  in  Odense,  to  read 
aloud  to  herself  and  her  sister-in-law.  She 
was  the  widow  of  a  clergyman  who  had  writ- 
ten poems.  In  this  house  Andersen  first  heard 
the  appellation  of /)oe^;  and  saw  with  what 
love  the  poetical  talent  of  the  deceased  pastor 
was  regarded.  This  sunk  deeply  into  his 
mind  ;  he  read  tragedies,  and  resolved  to  be- 
come a  poet,  as  this  good  man  had  been  be- 
fore him. 

He  wrote  a  tragedy,  therefore,  which  the 
two  ladies  praised  highly ;  it  was  handed 
about  in  manuscript,  and  people  laughed  at 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  15 

it,  and  ridiculed  him  as  the  "play-writer." 
This  wounded  him  so  deeply,  that  he  passed 
one  whole  night  weeping,  and  was  only  pa- 
cifitid,  or  rather,  silenced,  by  his  mother  threat- 
ening to  give  him  a  good  beating  for  his  folly. 
Spile,  however,  of  his  ill  success,  he  wrote 
again  and  again,  studying,  among  other  de- 
vices, German  and  French  words,  to  give 
dignity  to  his  dialogue.  Again  the  whole 
town  read  his  productions,  and  the  boys 
shouted  after  him  as  he  went,  "  Liook  !  look  : 
there  goes  the  play-writer." 

One  day  he  took  to  his  schoolmaster,  as  a 
birthday  present,  a  garland,  with  which  he 
had  twisted  up  a  little  poem.  The  school- 
master was  angry  with  him  ;  he  saw  nothing 
but  folly  and  false  quantities  in  the  verses, 
and  thus  the  poor  lad  had  nothing  but  trouble 
and  tears. 

The  worldly  affairs  of  the  mother  grew 
worse  and  worse,  and  as  boys  of  his  age 
earned  money  in  a  manufactory  near,  it  was 
resolved  that  there  also  Hans  Christian 
should  be  sent.  His  old  grandmother  took 
him  to  the  manufactory,  and  shed  bitter  tears 
because  the  lot  of  the  boy  was  so  early  toil 


16  MEMOIR    OF 

and  sorrow.  The  workmen  in  the  factory 
were  principally  German,  and  discovering 
that  Andersen  had  a  fine  voice,  and  knew 
many  popular  songs,  they  made  him  sing  to 
them  while  the  other  boys  did  his  work.  He 
knew  himself  that  he  had  a  good  voice,  be- 
cause the  neighbors  always  listened  when  he 
sang  at  home,  and  once  a  whole  party  of  rich 
people  had  stopped  to  hear  him,  and  had 
praised  his  beautiful  voice.  Everybody  in 
the  manufactory  heard  him  with  equal  de- 
hght. 

"  I  can  act  comedy  as  well !"  said  the  poor 
boy  one  day,  encouraged  by  their  applause, 
and  began  to  recite  whole  scenes  from  the 
comedies  which  his  father  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  reading.  The  workmen  were  de- 
lighted, and  the  other  boys  were  made  to  do 
his  tasks  while  he  amused  them  all.  This 
smooth  life  of  comedy  acting  and  singing 
lasted  but  for  a  short  time,  and  he  returned 
home. 

"  The  boy  must  go  and  act  at  the  theatre  !" 
many  of  the  neighbors  said  to  his  mother ; 
but  as  she  knew  of  no  other  theatre  than  that 
of  the  strolling  players,  she  shook  her  head, 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  17 

and  resolved  rather  to  put  her  son  apprentice 
to  a  tailor. 

He  was  now  twelve,  and  had  nothing  to 
do  ;  he  devoured,  therefore,  the  contents  of 
every  book  which  came  in  his  way.  His 
favorite  reading  was  an  old  prose  translation 
of  ^akspere.  From  this,  with  little  figures 
which  he  made  of  pasteboard,  he  performed 
the  whole  of  King  Lear,  and  the  Merchant 
of  Venice.        ^' 

"Andersen's  passion  for  reading,  and  his 
beautiful  voice,  had  in  the  meantime  drawn 
upon  him  the  attention  of  several  of  the 
higher  families  of  the  city,  who  introduced 
him  to  their  houses.  His  simple,  child-like 
behavior,  his  wonderful  memory,  and  his 
sweet  voice,  gave  to  him  a  peculiar  charm  ; 
people  talked  of  him,  and  he  soon  had  many 
friends  ;  among  others,  a  Colonel  Guldborg^ 
brother  to  the  well-known  poet  of  that  name, 
and  who  afterwards  introduced  him  to  Prince 
Christian  of  Denmark. 

About   this   time   his   mother   married    a 

second  time,  and  as  the  step-father  would  not 

spend  a  penny,  or  do  any  thing  for  her  son's 

education,  he  had  still  more  leisure.     He  had 

2  I 


18  MEMOIR    OF 

no  playfellows,  and  often  wandered  by  him- 
self to  the  neighboiing  forest,  or  seated  himself 
at  home,  in  a  corner  of  the  house,  and  dressed 
up  little  dolls  for  his  theatre^  his  mother  in 
the  meantime  thinking  that,  as  he  was  des- 
tined for  a  tailor,  this  was  all  good  practice. 

At  length  the  time  came  when  he  was  to 
be  confirmed.  On  this  occasion  he  had  his 
first  pair  of  boots  ;  he  was  very  vain  of  them, 
and  that  all  the  world  might  see  them,  he 
pulled  them  up  over  his  trousers.  An  old 
sempstress  was  employed  to  make  him  a  con- 
,  firmation-suit  out  of  his  deceased  father's 
/  great  coat.  Never  before  had  he  been  possess- 
ed of  such  excellent  clothes  ;  the  very  thoughts 
of  them  disturbed  his  devotions  on  the  day  of 
consecration. 

It  had  been  determined  that  Andersen  was 
to  be  apprenticed  to  a  tailor  after  his  confir- 
mation, but  he  earnestly  besought  his  mother 
to  give  up  this  idea,  and  consent  to  his  going 
to  Copenhagen,  that  he  might  get  employ- 
ment at  the  theatre  there.  He  read  to  her 
the  lives  of  celebrated  men  who  had  been 
quite  as  poor  as  himself,  and  assured  her  that 
be  also  would  cne  day  be  a  celebrated  maa 


HANS    CHRISTIAN   ^  .VDERSEN.  19 

For  several  years  he  had  been  hoarding  up 
his  money ;  he  had  now  about  thirty  shilhngs, 
Enghsh,  which  seemed  to  him  an  inexhausti- 
ble sum.  As  soon  as  his  mother  heard  of 
this  fund,  her  heart  inclined  towards  his 
wishes,  and  she  promised  to  consent  on  con- 
dition that  they  should  consult  a  wise  woman, 
and  that  his  going  or  staying  should  be  de- 
cided by  her  augury.  The  sibyl  was  fetched 
to  the  house,  and  after  she  had  read  the  cards, 
and  studied  the  coffee-grounds,  she  pronounc- 
ed these  words. 

"  Your  son  will  become  a  great  man.  The 
city  of  Odense  will  one  day  be  illuminated 
in  his  honor." 

A  prophecy  like  this  removed  all  do'ubts. 

"  Go,  in  God's  name  !"  said  his  mother,  and 
he  lost  no  time  in  preparing  for  his  great 
journey. 

Some  one  had  mentioned  to  him  a  certain 
female  dancer  at  the  Royal  Theatre  as  a 
person  of  great  influence  ;  he  obtained,  there- 
fore, from  a  gentleman  universally  esteemed 
in  Odense,  a  letter  of  introduction  to  this  lady ; 
and  with  this,  and  his  thirteen  rix-dollars,  he 
commenced  the  journey  on  which  depended 


20  »'EMQIR    OP 

his  whole  fate.  His  mother  accompanied 
him  to  the  city  gate,  and  there  his  good  old 
grandmother  met  him ;  she  kissed  him  with 
many  tears,  blessed  him,  and  he  never  saw 
her  more. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  crossed  the  Great 
Belt  that  he  felt  how  forlorn  he  was  in  the 
world ;  he  stepped  aside  from  the  road,  fell 
on  his  knees,  and  besought  God  to  be  his 
friend.  He  rose  up  comforted,  and  walked 
on  through  towns  and  villages,  until,  on  Mon- 
day morning,  the  5th  of  September,  1819,  he 
saw  the  towers  of  Copenhagen ;  and  with  his 
little  bundle  under  his  arm  he  entered  that 
great  city. 

On  the  day  after  his  arrival,  dressed  in  his 
confirmation-suit,  he  betook  himself,  with  his 
letter  of  introduction  in  his  hand,  to  the 
house  of  the  all-potential  dancer.  The  lady 
allowed  him  to  wait  a  long  time  on  the  steps 
of  her  house,  and  when  at  length  he  entered, 
his  awkward,  simple  behavior  and  appear- 
ance displeased  her  ;  she  fancied  him  insane, 
more  particularly  as  the  gentleman  from 
whom  he  brought  the  letter  was  unknown  to 
her. 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  21 

He  next  went  to  the  director  of  the  the- 
atre, requesting  some  appointment. 

"You  are  too  thin  for  the  theatre,"  was 
the  answer  he  obtained. 

"Oh,"  rephed  poor  Andersen,  "only  ensure 
me  one  hundred  rix-dollars,  and  I  will  soon 
get  fat !" 

But  the  director  would  make  no  agreement 
of  this  kind,  and  then  informed  him  that 
they  engaged  none  at  the  theatre  but^people 
of  education.  This  settled  the  questioiTfTie 
had  nothing  to  say  on  his  own  behalf,  and, 
dejected  In  spirit,  went  out  into  the  street. 
He  knew  no  human  creature  ;  he  thought  of 
death,  and  this  though^'' turned  his  mind  to^ 
God. 

"  When  everything  goes   adversely,"  sai< 
he,  "  th'eiTGfod  will  help  me ;  it  is  written  so 
in  every  book  that  I  ever  read,  and jn  God  I 
will  put  my  trust ! " 

Days  and  weeks  went  on,  bringing  with 
them  nothing  but  disappointment  and  des- 
pair ;  his  money  was  all  gone,  and  for  some 
time  he  worked  with  a  joiner.  At  length, 
as,  'vith  a  heavy  heart,  he  was  walking  one 
day  along  the  crowded  streets  of  the  city,  it 


^vi-     ^\  V  a .  L, ^    L\ 


K 


22  MEMOIR    OP 

occurred  to  him  that  as  yet  nobody  had 
heard  his  fine  voice.  Full  of  this  thought, 
he  hastened  at  once  to  the  house  of  Professor 
Siboni,  where  a  large  paity  happened  to  be 
at  dinner,  and  among  the  guests  Baggesen, 
the  poet,  and  the  celebrated  composer,  Pro- 
fessor Weyse.  He  knocked  at  the  door, 
which  was  opened  by  a  female  servant,  and 
to  her  he  related,  quite  open-heartedly,  how 
forlorn  and  friendless  he  was,  and  how  great 
a  desire  he  had  to  be  engaged  at  the  theatre  ; 
the  young  woman  went  in  and  related  this 
to  the  company.  All  were  interested  in  the 
little  adventurer  ;  he  was  ordered  in,  and  de- 
sired to  sing,  and  to  give  some  scenes  from 
Holberg.  One  of  these  scenes  bore  a  resem- 
blance to  his  own  melancholy  circumstances, 
and  he  burst  into  tears.  The  company  ap- 
plauded him. 

"  I  prophecy,"  said  Baggesen,  "  that  thou 
wilt  turn  out  something  remarkable-  only 
don't  become  vain  when  the  public  admires 
thee." 

Profesvsor  Siboni  promised  immediately  thai 
he  Avould  cultivate  Andersen's  voice,  and  that 
he  should   make  his   debut  at    the  Theatre 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  23 

Royal.  He  had  a  good  friend  too  in  Profes- 
sor Weyse,  and  a  year  and  a  half  were  spent 
in  elementary  instruction.  But  a  new  mis- 
fortune now  befell  him  ;  he  lost  his  beautiful 
yoice^nd  Siboni  counselled  him  to  put  him- 
self to  some  handicraft  trade.  He  once  more 
seemed  abandoned  to  a  hopeless  fate.  Cast- 
ing about  in  his  mind  who  might  possibly 
befriend  him,  he  bethought  himself  of  the  poet 
Guldborg,  whose  brother  the  colonel  had 
been  so  kind  to  him  in  Odense.  To  him  he 
went,  and  in  him  he  happily  found  a  friend; 
although  poverty  still  pursued  him,  and  his 
sufferings,  which  no  one  knew,  almost  over- 
came him. 

He  wrote  a  rhymed  tragedy,  which  obtain- 
ed some  little  praise  from  Oehlenschlagei  .and 
Ingemann — but  no  debut  was  permitted  him 
on  the  theatre.  He  wrote  a  second  and  third, 
but  the  theatre  would  not  accept  them. 
These  youthful  efforts  fell,  however,  into  the 
hand  of  a  powerful  and  good  man.  Confer- 
ence Counsellor  Collin,  who,  perceiving  the 
genius  tFat  slumbered  in  the  young"poet, 
went  immediately  to  the  king,  and  obtained 
permission  from  him  that  he  should  be  sent, 


24  MEMOIR    OF 

at  Government  charges,  to  one  of  the  learned 
schools  in  the  provinces,  in  which,  however, 
he  sufiered  immensely,  till  his  heart  was 
almost  broken  by  unkindness.  From  this 
school  he  went  to  college,  and  became  very 
soon  favorably  known  to  the  public  by  true 
poetical  "works.  Ingemann,  Oehlenschlager, 
and  others  then  obtained  for  him  a  royal 
stipend,  to  enable  him  to  travel;  and  he 
visited  Germany,  France,  Switzerland,  and 
Italy.  Italy,  and  the  poetical  character  of 
life  in  that  beautiful  country,  inspired  him ; 
and  he  wrote  the  "  Improvisatore,"  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  works,  whether  for  truthful 
delineation  of  character,  or  pure  and  noble 
sentiment,  that  ever  was  penned.  This 
work  most  harmoniously  combines  the  warm 
coloring  and  intensity  of  Italian  life  with 
the  freshest  and  strong  simplicity  of  the 
north.  His  romance  of  "  O.  T."  followed ; 
this  is  a  true  picture  of  the  secluded,  sober 
life  of^the  north,  and  is  a  great  favorite 
ihere.  His  third  work,  "Only  a  Fiddler," 
is  remarkable  for  its  strongly  drawn  personal 
and  national  characteristics,  founded  upon 
his  own  experience   in  early  life.     Perhaps 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  25 

there  never  was  a  more  affecting  picture  of 
the  hopeless  attempts  of  a  genius  of  second 
rate  order  to  combat  against  and  rise  above 
poverty  and  adverse  circumstances,  than  is 
given  in  the  Ufe  of  poor  Christian,  who  dies 
at  last  "only  a  fiddler." 

In  all  these  works  Andersen  has  drawn 
from  his  own  experience,  and  in  this  lies  their 
extraordinary  power.  There  is  a  child-like 
tenderness  and  simplicity  in  his  writmgs  ;  a 
sympathy  with  the  poor  and  the  struggling* ^ 
and  an  elevation  and  purity  of  tone^  which 
have  something  absolutely  hol^^bout  them  ■; 
it  is  the  inspirairon  of  true  genius,  combined 
with  great  experience  of  life,  and  a  spirit 
baptized  with  the  tenderness  of  Christianity. 
This  is  it  which  is  the  secret  of  the  extreme 
charm  his  celebrated  stories  have  for  children. 
They  are  as  simple  and  as  touching  as  the  old 
Bible  narratives  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren, 
and  the  little  lad  who  died  in  the  corn  field. 
We  wonder  not  at  their  being  the  most  pop- 
ular books  of  their  kind  in  Europe. 

It  has  been  my  happiness,  as  I  said  before, 
to  translate  his  three  piincipal  works,  his 
Picture  Book  without  Pictures,  and  several  of 


26  MEMOIR    OF 

his  stories  for  children.  They  have  been 
likewise  translated  into  German,  and  some 
of  them  into  Dutch,  and  even  Russian.  He 
speaks  nobly  of  this  circumstance  in  his  hfe. 
"  My  works,"  says  he,  "  seem  to  come  forth 
under  a  lucky  star,  they  fly  over  all  lands. 
There  is  something  elevating,  but  at  the  same 
time  something  terrific  in  seeing  one's  thoughts 
spread  so  far,  and  among  so  many  people ; 
it  is  indeed  almost  a  fearful  thing  to  belong 
to  so  many.  The  noble  and  good  in  us  be- 
comes a  blessing,  but  the  bad,  one's  errors, 
shoot  forth  also  ;  and  involuntarily  the  prayer 
forces  itself  from  us — '  God !  let  me  never 
write  down  a  word  of  which  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  give  an  account  to  thee  !'  a  peculiar 
feeling,  a  mixture  of  joy  and  anxiety,  fills  m}?- 
heart  every  time  my  good  genius  conveys 
my  fictions  to  a  foreign  people." 

Of  Andersen's  present  life  we  need  only  say 
that  he  spends  a  great  deal  of  his  time  in 
traveling  ;  he  goes  from  land  to  land,  and 
from  court  to  court,  everywhere  an  honored 
guest,  and  enjoying  the  glorious  reward  of 
a  manly  struggle  against  adversity,  and  the 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  27 

triumph  of  a  lofty  and  pure  genius  in  seeing 
its  claims  generously  acknowledged. 

Let  US  now  see  the  son  of  the  poor  shoe- 
maker of  Odense — the  friendless,  ill-clad,  al- 
most heart-broken  boy  of  Copenhagen — on 
one  of  those  occasions,  which  would  make  an 
era  in  the  life  of  any  other  literary  man,  but 
which  are  of  every  day  occurrence  in  his.  I 
will  quote  from  his  own  words. 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  the  ministry.  Count 
Rantzau  Breitenburg,  containing  an  invita- 
tion from  their  majesties  of  Denmark  to  join 
them  at  the  watering-place  of  Fohr;  this 
island  lies  in  the  North  S^a,  on  the  coast  of 
Sleswick.  It  was  just  now  five  and-twenty 
years  since  I,  a  poor  lad,  traveled  alone  and 
helpless  to  Copenhagen.  Exactly  the  five-and 
twentieth  anniversary  would  be  celebrated  by 
my  being  with  my  king  and  queen.  Every- 
thing which  surrounded  me,  man  and  nature, 
reflected  themselves  imperishably  in  my  soul ; 
I  felt  myself,  as  it  were,  conducted  to  a  point 
from  which  I  could  look  forth  more  distinctly 
over  the  past,  with  all  the  good  fortune  and 
happiness  w^hich  it  had  evolved  for  me. 

"  Wyck,  the  largest  town  of  Fohr,  in  which 


28  MEMOIR    OF 

are  the  baths,  is  built  like  a  Dutch  town 
with  houses  one  story  high,  sloping  roofs^ 
and  gables  turned  to  the  street.  The  number 
of  strangers  there,  and  the  presence  of  the 
Court,  gave  a  peculiar  animation  to  it.  The 
Danish  flag  was  seen  waving,  and  music  was 
heard  on  all  hands.  I  was  socm  established 
in  my  quarters,  and  was  invited  every  day  to 
dine  with  their  majesties  as  well  as  to  pass 
the  evening  in  their  circle.  On  several  eve- 
nings I  read  aloud  my  little  stories  to  them^ 
and  nothing  could  be  more  gracious  and  kind 
than  they  were.  It  is  so  well  when  a  noble 
human  nature  will  reveal  itself,  where  other- 
wise only  the  king's  crown  and  the  purple 
mantle  might  be  discovered. 
^  "  I  sailed  in  the  train  of  their  majesties,  to 
the  largest  of  the  Halligs,  those  grassy  runes 
in  the  ocean,  which  bear  testimony  to  a 
sunken  country.  The  violence  of  the  sea  has 
changed  the  mainland  into  islands,  has  again 
riven  these,  and  buried  men  and  villages. 
Year  after  year  are  new  portions  rent  away 
and  in  half  a  century's  time  there  will  be  no- 
thing left  but  sea.  The  Halligs  are  now  low 
islets,  covered  with  a  dark  turf,  on  which  a  few 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  29 

flocks  graze.  When  the  sea  rises,  these  are 
driven  to  the  garrets  for  refuge,  and  the  waves 
roll  over  this  little  region,  which  lies  miles  dis- 
tant from  any  shore.  Oland,  which  we  visited, 
contains  a  little  town ;  the  houses  stand 
closely  side  by  side,  as  if  in  their  sore  need 
they  had  huddled  together  ;  they  are  all  erect- 
ed on  a  platform,  and  have  little  windows  like 
the  cabin  of  a  ship.  There,  solitary  through 
half  the  year,  sit  the  wives  and  daughters 
spinning.  Yet  I  found  books  in  all  the 
houses  ;  the  people  read  and  work,  and  the 
sea  rises  round  the  houses,  which  lie  like  a 
wreck  on  the  ocean.  The  church-yard  is 
half  washed  away  ;  coffins  and  corpses  are 
frequently  exposed  to  view.  It  is  an  appalling 
sight,  and  yet  the  inhabitants  of  the  Halligs 
are  attached  to  their  httle  home,  and  fre- 
quently  die  of  home-sickness  when  removed 
"Irom  it. 

"  We  found  only  one  man  upon  the  island, 
and  he  had  only  lately  arisen  from  a  sick- 
bed ;  the  others  were  out  on  long  voyages. 
We  were  received  by  women  and  girls  ;  they 
had  erected  before  the  church  a  trium- 
phal   arch   with    flowers,   which    they   had 


30  MEMOIR    OF 

fetched  from  Fohr,  but  it  was  so  small  and 
low,  that  one  was  obliged  to  go  round  it ;  it 
nevertheless  showed  their  good  will.  The 
Queen  was  deeply  affected  by  their  having 
cut  down  their  only  shrub,  a  rose-bush,  to  lay 
over  a  marshy  place  which  she  had  to  cross. 

"  On  our  return,  dinner  was  served  on  board 
the  royal  steamer,  and  afterwards  as  we  sail- 
ed in  a  glorious  sunset  through  this  archipe- 
lago, the  deck  of  the  vessel  was  changed  to  a 
dancing  hall :  servants  flew  hither  and  thith- 
er with  refreshments  ;  sailors  stood  upon  the 
paddle-boxes  and  took  soundings,  and  their 
deep  tones  might  be  heard  giving  the  depth 
of  the  water.  The  moon  rose  round  and 
large,  and  the  promontory  of  Amrom  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a  snow-covered  chain  of 
Alps." 

The  next  day  he  visited  the  wild  regions 
about  the  promontory,  but  our  space  will  not 
admit  of  our  giving  any  portions  of  wild  and 
grand  sea-landscape  which  he  here  describes. 
In  the  evening  he  returned  to  the  royal  din- 
ner-table. It  was  on  the  above  mentioned 
five-and-twentieth  anniversary,  on  the  6th  of 
September ;  he  says, 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  31 

"The  whole  of  my  former  life  passed  in 
review  before  my  mind.  I  was  obliged  to 
summon  all  my  strength  to  prevent  myself 
bursting  into  tears.  There  are  moments  of 
gratitude,  in  which  we  feel,  as  it  were,  a  de- 
sire to  press  God  to  our  hearts  !  How  deeply 
I  felt  at  this  time  my  own  nothingness,  and 
low  all,  all  had  come  from  him  !  After  din- 
ner the  king,  to  whom  Rantzau  had  told  how 
interesting  the  day  was  to  me,  wished  me 
happiness,  and  that  most  kindly.  He  wished 
me  happiness  in  that  which  I  had  endured 
and  won.  He  asked  me  about  my  early, 
struggling  life,  and  I  related  to  him  some 
traits  of  it. 

"  In  the  course  of  conversation  he  asked 
me  of  my  annual  income.     I  told  him. 

"  '  That  is  not  much,'  said  he. 

"  '  But  I  do  not  need  much,'  I  replied ; 
*  my  writings  furnish  something.' 

" '  If  I  can  in  any  way  be  serviceable  to 
you.  come  to  me,'  said  the  king  in  conclusion. 

"  In  the  evening,  during  the  concert,  some 
of  my  friends  reproached  me  for  not  making 
use  of  my  opportunity. 

"  '  The  king,'  said  they  '  put  the  words 
into  youv  mouth.' 


32  MEMOIR. 

"  '  I  could  not  have  done  more,'  said  1  ^  Mf 
the  king  thought  I  required  an  addition  to 
my  income,  he  would  give  it  of  his  own  free 
will.' 

"  And  I  was  right ;  in  the  following  year 
the  king  increased  my  annual  stipend,  so  that 
with  this  and  my  writings  I  can  live  honor- 
ably and  free  from  care. 

"  The  5th  of  September  was  to  me  a  festi- 
val day.  Even  the  German  visitors  at  the 
baths  honored  me  by  drinking  my  health  in 
the  pump-room. 

"  So  many  flattering  cn-cumstances,  some 
people  argue,  may  spoil  a  man  and  make 
him  vain.  But  no,  they  do  not  spoil  him, 
they  make  him,  on  the  contrary,  better ;  they 
purify  his  mind,  and  he  thereby  feels  an  im- 
pulse, a  wish  to  deserve  all  that  he  enjoys." 

Such  are  truly  the  feelings  of  a  pure  and 
noble  nature.  Andersen  has  stood  the  test 
through  every  trial,  of  poverty  and  adversity  ; 
the  harder  trial  that  of  a  sun-bright  prosper- 
ity, is  now  proving  him,  and  so  far,  thank 
God,  the  sterling  nature  of  the  man  has  re- 
mained unspoiled. 


A  PICTURE-BOOK  WITHOUT  PICTURES. 


It  is  wonderful !  When  my  heart  feela 
the  mc  it  warmly,  and  my  emotions  are  the 
noblest,  it  is  as  if  my  hands  and  my  tongue 
were  tied ;  I  cannot  describe,  I  cannot  ex- 
press my  own  inward  state ;  and  yet  I  am  a 
painter  ;  my  eye  tells  me  so  ;  and  every  one 
who  has  seen  my  sketches  and  my  tablets  ac- 
knowledges it. 

I  am  a  poor  youth ;  I  live  over  there  in  one 
of  the  narrowest  streets,  but  I  have  no  want 
of  light,  because  I  live  up  aloft,  with  a  view 
over  all  the  house-tops.  The  first  day  I 
came  into  the  city  it  seemed  to  me  so  confined 
and  lonesome ;  instead  of  the  woods  and  the 
35 


36  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

greeu  breezy  heights,  I  had  only  the  grey 
chimneys  as  far  as  I  could  see.  I  did  not 
possess  one  friend  here ;  not  a  single  face 
which  I  knew  saluted  me. 

One  evening,  very  much  depressed  in  mind, 
I  stood  at  my  window  ;  I  opened  it  and  look- 
ed out.  Nay,  how  glad  it  made  me ;  I  saw 
a  face  which  I  knew  ;  a  round,  friendly  face, 
that  of  my  dearest*  friend  in  heaven  ;  it  was 
the  Moon — the  dear  old  Moon,  the  very  same, 
precisely  the  same,  as  when  she  peeped  at 
me  between  the  willow  trees  on  the  marshes. 
I  kissed  my  hand  to  her ;  she  shone  right 
down  into  my  chamber,  and  promised  me, 
that  every  night  when  she  was  out  she  would 
take  a  peep  at  me.  And  she  has  honestly 
kept  her  word — pity  only  that  she  can  re- 
main for  so  short  a  time  ! 

Every  night  she  comes  she  tells  me  one 
thing  or  another  which  she  has  seen  either 
that  night  or  the  night  before.  "Make  a 
sketch,"  said  she,  on  her  first  visit,  "  of  what 


WITHOUT    PICTUREJJ.  6l 

I  tell  thee,  and  thus  thou  shalt  make  a  really- 
beautiful  picture-book  !" 

This  I  have  done  ;  and  in  this  way  I  might 
give  a  new  Thousand  and  One  Nights  in 
pictures  :  but  that  would  be  too  much ;  those 
which  I  have  given  have  not  been  selected, 
but  are  just  as  I  heard  them.  A  great,  ge- 
nial-hearted painter,  a  poet,  or  a  musician, 
may  make  more  of  them  if  he  will ;  that 
which  I  present  is  only  a  slight  outline  on 
paper,  and  mixed  up  with  my  own  thoughts, 
because  it  was  not  every  night  that  the  moon 
came ;  there  was  now  and  then  a  cloud  be- 
tween us, 


38  A    PXCTURE-BOOK 


FIRST  EVENING. 

Last  night, — these  are  the  Moon's  owu 
words, — I  glided  through  the  clear  air  of  In- 
dia; I  mirrored  myself  in  the  Ganges.  My 
beams  sought  to  penetrate  the  thick  fence 
which  the  old  plantains  had  woven,  and 
which  formed  itself  into  an  arch  as  firm  as 
the  shell  of  the  tortoise.  A  Hindoo  girl,  light 
as  the  gazelle,  beautiful  as  Eve,  came  forth 
from  the  thicket.  There  is  scarcely  anything 
so  airy  and  yet  so  affluent  in  the  luxuriance 
of  beauty,  as  the  daughter  of  India.  I  could 
see  her  thoughts  through  her  delicate  skin 
The  thorny  lianas  tore  her  sandals  from  her 
feet,  but  she  stepped  rapidly  forward ;  the 
wild  beast  which  came  from  the  river,  where 
it  had  quenched  its  thirst,  sprang  past  her. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  30 

for  the  girl  held  in  her  hand  a  burning  lamp. 
I  could  see  the  fresh  blood  in  her  lingers  as 
she  curved  them  into  a  shade  for  the  flame. 
She  approached  the  river  ;  placed  the  lamp 
on  the  stream ;  and  the  lamp  sailed  away. 
The  flame  flickered  as  if  it  would  go  out; 
but  still  it  burned,  and  the  girl's  dark,  flash- 
ing eyes  followed  it  with  her  whole  soul 
beaming  from  under  her  long  silken  eyelashes ; 
she  knew  that  if  the  lamp  burned  as  long 
as  she  could  see  it,  then  her  beloved  was  alive; 
but  if  it  went  out,  then  that  he  was  dead. 
The  lamp  burned  and  fluttered,  and  her  heart 
burned  and  fluttered  also ;  she  sank  on  her 
knee  and  breathed  a  prayer :  close  beside 
her,  in  the  grass,  lay  a  water-snake,  but  she 
thought  only  of  Brama  and  her  beloved.  "  He 
lives !"  exclaimed  she,  rejoicingly,  and  the 
mountains  repeated  her  words,  "  he  lives  !" 


40  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


SECOND  EVENING. 

It  was  last  evening, — said  the  Moon. — 
that  I  peeped  down  into  a  yard  inclosed 
by  houses.  A  hen  was  there  with  eleven 
chickens  ;  a  little  g-irl  was  playing  around 
them ;  the  hen  set  up  a  cackling  cry,  she 
was  frightened,  and  spread  out  her  wings 
over  her  eleven  young  ones.  With  that,  out 
came  the  father  of  the  child  and  scolded  her. 
This  evening  (it  is  only  a  few  minutes  since,) 
the  moon  looked  down  again  into  that  yard. 
Everything  was  quite  still ;  presently,  how- 
ever, out  came  the  little  girl,  and  stole  very 
softly  to  the  hen-house,  lifted  the  latch,  and 
crept  in  to  the  hen  and  the  chickens.  The  hen 
and  chickens  set  up  a  loud  cry,  and  flew  here 
and  there,  and  the  little  girl  ran  after  thenv 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  41 

Again  the  father  came  out,  and  now  he  was 
v^ery  angry  indeed,  and  scolded  her,  and 
pulled  her  out  of  the  hen-house  by  her  arm  ; 
she  hung  back  her  head,  and  there  were  large 
tears  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  What  wast  thou  doing  here  ?"  asked  the 
father.  She  wept ;  "  I  only  wanted,"  said  she, 
"  to  kiss  the  hen,  and  ask  her  to  forgive  me 
for  yesterday:  but  I  did  not  dare  to  tell 
thee." 

The  father  kissed  the  sweet  innocent  on 
her  forehead;  the  moonlight  fell  lovingly 
upon  her  eyes  and  mouth. 


42  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


THIRD  EVENING. 

In  a  narrow  street,  just  by, — said  the 
Moon, — which  is  so  very  confined  that  only 
just  for  one  minute  can  my  beams  fall  upon 
the  walls  of  the  houses — and  yet  at  this 
moment  I  can  look  abroad  and  see  the  world 
as  it  moves — into  this  narrow  street  I  looked 
and  saw  a  woman.  Sixteen  years  ago  and 
she  was  a  child ;  she  lived  away  in  the 
country,  and  played  inthe  old  pastor's  garden. 
The  hedges  of  roses  had  grown  out  of  bounds 
for  many  years:  they  threw  their  wild  un- 
trimmed  branches  across  the  path,  and  sent 
up  long,  green  shoots  into  the  apple-trees ; 
there  was  only  a  rose  here  and  there,  anJ 
they  were  not  beautiful  as  the  queen  of  flow- 
ers  may  be,   although    the    color   and  ths 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  43 

odor  were  there.  The  pastor's  httle  daughter, 
however,  was  a  much  more  beautiful  rose  :  she 
sate  upon  her  little  wooden  stool  under  the 
wild  untrimmed  hedge,  and  kissed  her  doll 
with  the  broken  face. 

Ten  years  later  I  saw  her  again  ;  I  saw 
her  in  the  splendid  dancing-hall ;  she  was 
the  lovely  bride  of  a  rich  tradesman,  and  I 
rejoiced  in  her  good  fortune.  I  visited  her  ivi 
the  still  evening.  Alas  !  my  rose  had  put 
forth  also  wild  shoots  like  the  roses  in  the 
pastor's  garden  ! 

Every-day  life  has  its  tragedy — this  evening 
I  saw  the  last  act.  Sick  to  death,  she  lay  in 
that  narrow  street,  upon  her  bed.  The  wick- 
ed landlord,  her  only  protector,  a  man  rude 
and  cold-hearted,  drew  back  the  curtain. 
"  Get  up  r  said  he,  "  thy  cheeks  are  pale 
and  hollow  ;  paint  thyself !  Get  money,  or  I 
will  turn  thee  out  into  the  streets  !  Get  up 
quickly  !" 

"  Death  is  at  my  heart !"  said  she,  "  oh  ! 
let  me  rest !" 

He  compelled  her  to  rise ;  painted  her 
cheeks,  twined  roses  in  her  hair,  placed  her 
at  the  window,  with  a  burning  hght  beside 


44  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

her,  and  went  his  way.  I  glanced  at  her ; 
she  sate  hiimoveable  ;  her  hands  fell  upon  hei 
lap.  The  window  blew  open,  so  that  one  of 
the  panes  of  glass  was  broken ;  but  she 
moved  not ;  the  curtains  of  the  window  were 
blown  around  her  like  a  flame.  She  was 
dead.  From  that  open  window  the  dead 
preached  powerfully  ;  my  rose  of  the  pastor's 
garden ! 


WITHOX^T    PICTURES.  45 


FOURTH  EVENING. 

I  was  last  evening  at  a  German  play, — > 
said  the  Moon  ; — it  was  in  a  little  city.  The 
theatre  was  a  stable ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
stalls  were  made  use  of  and  decorated  for 
boxes,  the  old  wood-work  was  covered  over 
with  figured  paper.  There  hung  from  the 
low  roof  a  little  iron  chandelier,  and  in  order 
that  it  might  rise  the  moment  the  prompter's 
bell  rang  (as  is  the  custom  in  large  theatres)^ 
it  was  now  covered  by  a  tub  turned  upside 
down.  The  bell  rang,  and  the  little  iron 
chandelier  made  a  leap  of  half  an  ell,  and  by 
that  token  people  knew  that  the  comedy  had 
begun.  A  young  prince  and  his  wife,  who 
were  traveling  through  the  town,  were  to  be 
present  at  the  performance,  and  therefore  it 


46  A    PICTURE-BOCK 

was  a,  very  full  house,  excepting  that  under 
the  chandelier  it  was  like  a  little  crater.  Not 
a  single  soul  sate  there  ;  the  chandelier  kept 
dropping  its  oil — drop  !  drop  !  It  was  so  hot 
in  the  little  theatre  that  they  were  obliged  to 
open  all  the  holes  in  the  walls  to  let  in  fresh 
air,  and  through  all  these  peeped  in  lads  and 
lasses  from  the  outside,  although  the  police 
sate  by  and  dro^  e  them  off  with  sticks. 

Close  by  the  orchestra,  people  saw  the 
young  princely  couple  sitting  in  two  old  arm- 
chairs, which  otherwise  would  have  been 
occupied  by  the  burgomaster  and  his  lady; 
as  it  was,  however,  they  sate  upon  wooden 
benches,  like  other  townsfolk.  "  One  may 
see  that  there  are  falcons  above  falcons  !"  was 
Madame's  silent  observation ;  and  after  this 
all  became  more  festal ;  the  chandelier  made 
a  leap  upwards,  the  people  began  counting  on 
their  fingers,  and  I — yes,  the  Moon — was 
present  during  the  whole  comedy. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  47 


FIFTH  EVENING. 

Yesterday, — said  the  Moon, — I  looked 
down  upon  busy  Paris.  I  gazed  into  the 
chambers  of  the  Louvre.  An  old  grandmother, 
wretchedly  clad,  and  who  belonged  to  the 
lower  class,  entered  the  large,  empty  throne- 
room,  accompanied  by  one  of  the  under  ser- 
vants of  the  palace.  It  had  cost  her  many 
small  oacrifices,  and  very  much  eloquence 
had  she  used  before  she  could  be  admitted 
here.  She  folded  her  thin  hands,  and  looked 
as  reverentially  around  her  as  if  she  had  been 
in  a  church. 

"  It  was  here  !"  she  said,  "  here  !"  and  she 
approached  the  throne  which  was  covered 
with  a  cloth  of  rich  velvet,  trimmed  with  gold. 
"  There  !"   said  she,  "  there  !"  and  she  bowed 


48  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

Ler  knee  and  kissed  the  crimson  velvet — 1 
think  she  wept. 

"It  was  not  that  velvet,"  said  the  at- 
tendant, while  a  smile  played  round  his 
mouth. 

"  But  still  it  was  here !"  said  the  woman, 
"and  it  looked  in  this  room  just  so!" 

"Just  so,"  rephed  he  ;  "  and  yet  it  was  not 
just  so  either  :  the  windows  were  beaten  out ; 
the  doors  were  torn  off  their  hinges,  and 
there  was  blood  upon  the  floor!  You  can 
say,  however,  for  all  that,  that  your  son 
died  upon  the  throne  of  France  !" 

"  Died !"  repeated  the  old  woman. 

No  more  was  said  ;  they  left  the  hall ; 
the  shades  of  evening  fell  deeper,  and  the 
moonlight  streamed  in  with  twofold  bright- 
ness on  the  rich  velvet  of  the  throne  of 
France. 

I  will  tell  thee  a  story.  It  was  in  the 
revolution  ot  July,  towards  evening,  on  the 
most  brilliant  day  of  victory,  when  every 
house  was  a  fortress,  every  window  a  redoubt, 
the  people  stormed  the  Tuilleries.  Even 
women  and  children  fought  among  the  com- 
batants ;    they    thronged    in    through    the 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  AM 

chambers  and  halls  of  the  palace.  A  poor, 
half-grown  lad,  in  ragged  clothing,  fouglit 
desperately  among  the  elder  warriors ;  mor- 
tally wounded  at  length  by  the  thrusts  of 
many  bayonets,  he  sank  to  the  ground  ;  this 
took  place  in  the  throne-room.  They  wrap- 
ped the  velvet  about  his  wounds  ;  the  blood 
streamed  over  the  royal  purple.  It  was  a 
picture  !  The  magnificent  hall ;  the  combat- 
ing groups  ;  a  rent  banner  on  the  floor  ;  the 
tri-colored  flag  floating  above  the  bayonets; 
and  upon  the  throne  the  poor  lad,  with  his 
pale,  glorified  countenance,  his  eyes  turned 
towards  heaven ;  his  limbs  stitfening  in 
death ;  his  uncovered  breast ;  his  miserable 
garments,  and  around  these  the  rich  folds  of 
the  velvet,  embroidered  with  silver  lilies  ! 

As  that  boy  lay  in  the  cradle,  it  had  been 
foretold  that  he  should  die  on  the  throne  of 
France !  His  mother's  heart  had  dreamed 
of  a  new  Napoleon.  The  moonbeams  have 
kissed  the  garland  of  everlasting  upon  his 
grave ;  her  beams  this  night  kissed  the  old 
grandmother's  forehead  as  she  dreamed  of 
this  picture — The  poor  lad  upon  the  throne 
of  France  ! 

3  4 


50  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


SIXTH  EVENING. 

I  have  been  in  Upsala, — said  the  Moon. 
She  looked  down  upon  the  great  castle,  with 
the  miserable  grass  of  its  trampled  fields.  She 
mirrored  herself  in  the  river  Fyris,  whilst  the 
steam-boat  drove  the  terrified  fish  among  the 
reeds.  Clouds  careered  along  the  moonlit 
sky,  and  cast  long  shadows  over  the  graves, 
as  they  are  called,  of  Odin,  Thor,  and  Freya. 
Names  are  carved  in  the  scanty  turf  upon 
the  heights.  Here  there  is  no  building-stone 
in  w^hich  the  visitors  can  hew  their  names ; 
no  walled  fences  on  which  they  can  paint 
them  ;  they  cut  away,  therefore,  the  turf,  and 
the  naked  earth  stares  forth  in  the  large 
letters  of  their  names,  which  look  like  a  huge 
jet  spread  over  the  hill.  An  immortality 
«'hich  a  fresh  growth  of  turf  destroys. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  51 

A  man  stood  on  the  hill-top;  he  was  a 
poet.  He  emptied  a  silver-rimmed  mead- 
horn,  and  whispered  a  name,  which  he  bade 
the  wind  not  to  reveal ;  a  count's  coronet 
shone  above  it,  and  therefore  he  breathed  it 
low — the  moonbeams  smiled  upon  him,  for  a 
poet's  crown  shone  above  his !  The  noble 
name  of  Eleonora  d'Este  is  united  to  Tasso's. 
I  know  where  the  rose  of  beauty  grows.  A 
cloud  passed  before  the  moon.  May  no 
cloud  pass  between  the  poet  and  his  rose  ! 


52  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


SEVENTH  EVENING. 

Down  by  the  seaside  there  extends  a 
wood  of  oaks  and  beecliep,  fresh  and  fragrant 
and  every  branch  is  visited  by  hundreds  of 
nightingales.  Close  beside  is  the  sea,  the 
eternally-moving  sea,  and  between  the  sea 
and  the  wood  runs  the  broad  high-road.  One 
carriage  after  another  rolled  past.  I  follow- 
ed them  not ;  my  eye  rested  mostly  on  one 
spot  where  was  a  barrow,  or  old  warrior's 
grave.  Brambles  and  white  thorns  grew  up 
from  among  the  stones.  There  is  the  poetry 
of  nature.  Dost  thou  believe  that  this  is  felt 
by  every  one  ?  Listen  to  what  occurred  there 
only  last  night. 

First  of  all,  two  rich  countrymen  drove 
past.     "  There  are  some  splendid  trees  there,'' 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  53 

said  one.  "  There  are  ten  loads  of  fire- wood 
in  eachj"  replied  the  other.  "  If  the  winter  be 
severe,  one  should  get  forty  rix  dollars  in 
spring  for  the  measure  !"  and  they  were  gone. 

"  The  road  is  abominable  here,"  said  an- 
other traveller.  "  It  is  those  cursed  trees,"  re- 
plied his  neighbor ;  "  there  is  no  circulation 
of  air  here,  excepting  from  the  sea :"  and  they 
advanced  onward. 

At  that  moment  the  diligence  came  by. 
A-11  were  asleep  at  the  most  beautiful  point : 
the  driver  blew  his  horn,  but  he  only  thought, 
"  I  blow  it  capitally,  and  here  it  sounds  well ; 
what  will  they  think  of  it  ?"  And  with  that 
the  diligence  was  gone. 

Next  came  by  two  young  country-fellows 
on  horseback.  The  champagne  of  youth  cir- 
culated through  their  blood  ;  a  smile  was  on 
their  lips  as  they  looked  towards  the  moss- 
grown  height,  and  the  dark  bushes.  "  I  went 
there  with  Christine  Miller,"  said  one  to  the 
other ;  and  they  were  gone. 

The  flowers  sent  forth  their  fragrance ; 
every  breeze  slept ;  the  sea  looked  like  a  por- 
tion of  heaven  spread  out  over  a  deep  valley ; 
a  carriage  drove  along ;  there  were  six  per- 


54  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

sons  in  it,  four  of  wliom  were  asleep ;  the 
fifth  was  thinking  of  his  new  summer-coal 
which  was  so  becoming  to  him ;  the  sixth 
leaned  forward  to  the  driver,  and  asked 
whether  there  was  anything  remarkable 
about  that  heap  of  stones  :  "  No,"  said  the  fel- 
low, "  it's  only  a  heap  of  stones,  but  the  trees 
are  remarkable  ! "  "  Tell  me  about  them," 
said  the  other.  "  Yes,  they  are  very  remark- 
able ;  you  see,  in  winter,  when  the  snow  co- 
vers the  ground,  and  everything,  as  it  were, 
goes  out  in  a  twinkling,  then  those  trees  serve 
me  as  a  landmark  by  which  I  can  guide  my- 
self, and  not  drive  into  the  sea;  they  are, 
therefore,  you  see,  very  remarkable," — and  by 
this  time  the  carriage  had  passed  the  trees. 

A  painter  now  came  up  ;  his  eyes  flashed  ; 
he  said  not  a  word,  he  whistled,  and  the 
nightingales  sang,  one  louder  than  another ; 
"  hold  your  tongues  !"  exclaimed  he,  and  noted 
down  with  accuracy  the  colors  and  tints  of  the 
trees;  "blue,  black,  dark-brown."  It  would 
be  a  beautiful  painting  !  He  made  a  sketch, 
as  hints  for  his  intended  picture,  and  all  the 
time  he  whistled  a  march  of  Rossini's. 

The  last  who  came  by  was  a  poor  girl ; 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  55 

she  sate  down  to  rest  herself  upon  the  old 
warrior's  grave,  and  put  her  bundle  beside 
her.  Her  lovely,  pale  face  mclined  itself  to- 
wards the  wood  as  she  sate  listening  ;  her 
eyes  flashed  as  she  looked  heaven-ward  across 
the  sea ;  her  hands  folded  themselves,  and 
she  murmured  the  Lord's  Prayer.  She  did 
not  understand  the  emotions  which  penetrated 
her  soul ;  but,  nevertheless,  in  future  years, 
this  moment,  in  which  she  was  surrounded 
by  nature,  will  return  to  her  much  more 
beautifully,  nay,  will  be  fixed  more  faithfully 
in  her  memory,  than  on  the  tablets  of  the 
painter,  though  he  noted  down  every  shade 
of  color.  She  went  forward,  and  the  moon- 
beams lighted  her  path,  until  daylight  kissed 
her  forehead  I 


56  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


EIGHTH  EVENING. 

There  were  thick  clouds  over  the  sky; 
the  Moon  was  not  visible ;  I  stood  in  twofold 
solitude  in  my  little  room,  and  looked  out 
into  the  night,  which  should  have  been  illu- 
minated by  her  beams.  My  thoughts  fled 
far  away,  up  to  the  great  friend  who  told  me 
stories  so  beautifully  every  evening,  and  show- 
ed me  pictures.  Yes,  what  has  not  she  seen  ! 
She  looked  down  upon  the  waters  of  the 
deluge,  and  smiled  on  the  ark  as  she  now 
smiles  upon  me,  and  brought  consolation  to 
a  new  world  which  should  again  bloom 
forth.  When  tht:  children  of  Israel  stood 
weeping  by  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  she  look- 
ed mournfully  down  upon  the  willows  where 
their  harps  hung.     When  Romeo  ascended 


"WITHOUT    PICTURES.  57 

to  the  balcony,  and  the  kiss  of  love  went  like 
a  cherub's  thought  from  earth,  the  round 
Moon  stood  in  the  transparent  atmosphere, 
half  concealed  amid  the  dark  cypresses.  She 
saw  the  hero  on  St.  Helena,  when  from  his 
solitary  rock  he  looked  out  over  the  ocean  of 
the  world,  whilst  deep  thoughts  were  at  work 
in  his  breast.  Yes,  what  could  not  the  Moon 
relate  !  The  life  of  the  world  is  a  history  for 
her.  This  evening  I  see  thee  not,  old  friend ! 
I  can  paint  no  picture  in  remembrance  of  thy 
visit ! — and  as  I  dreamingly  looked  up  into 
the  clouds,  light  shone  forth  ;  it  was  a  moon- 
beam, but  it  is  gone  again  ;  dark  clouds  float 
past ;  but  that  ray  was  a  salutation,  a  friend- 
ly evening  salutation  from  the  Moon. 


f>8  A    PICTURB.-BOOK 


NINTH  EVENING. 

Ag-ain  the  air  is  clear ;  I  had  again  mate- 
rial for  a  sketch ;  listen  to  that  which  I 
learned  from  the  Moon. 

The  birds  of  the  polar  region  flew  on- 
ward, and  the  whale  swam  towards  the 
eastern  coast  of  Greenland.  Rocks  covered 
with  ice  and  clouds  shut  in  a  valley  in  which 
the  bramble  and  whortleberry  were  in  full 
bloom.  The  fragrant  lichen  diffused  its  odor ; 
the  Moon  shone  faintly ;  its  crescent  was  pale 
as  the  leaf  of  the  water-lily,  which,  torn  from 
its  stalk,  has  floated  for  weeks  upon  the  water. 
The  northern-lights  burned  brightly ;  theii 
circle  was  broad,  and  rays  went  upwards 
from  them  like  whirling  pillars  of  fire,  as- 
cending  through   the   whole   sphere   of  the 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  59 

hedvens,  in  colors  of  green  and  crimson. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  valley  assembled  for 
dance  and  mirth,  but  they  looked  not  witli 
admiring  eyes  at  the  magnificent  spectacle 
which  was  familiar  to  them.  "  Let  the  dead 
play  at  ball  with  the  heads  of  the  walrus  !'' 
thought  they,  according  to  their  belief,  and 
occupied  themselves  only  with  the  dance  and 
the  song.  In  the  middle  of  the  circle,  wrap- 
ped in  fur,  stood  a  Greenlander  with  his 
hand-drum,  and  accompanied  himself  as  he 
sung  of  seal-hunting,  and  the  people  answer- 
ed in  chorus  with  an  "  Eia  !  eia !  a  !"  and 
skipped  round  and  round  in  their  white  furs 
like  so  many  bears  dancing.  With  this,  trial 
and  judgment  began.  They  who  were  ad- 
versaries came  forwaid ;  the  plaintiff  impro- 
vised in  a  bold  and  sarcastic  manner  the 
crime  of  his  opponent,  and  all  the  while 
the  dance  went  on  to  the  sound  of  the  drum  ; 
the  defendant  replied  in  the  same  manner ; 
but  the  assembly  laughed  and  passed  sen- 
tence upon  him  in  the  m'eantime.  A  loud 
noise  was  now  heard  from  the  mountains : 
the  icy  cliffs  were  cleft  asunder,  and  the  huge 
tumbling  masses  were  dashed  to  atoms  in 


60  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

their  fall.     That  was  a  beautiful  Greenland 
summer-night. 

At  the  distance  of  a  hundred  paces,  there 
lay  a  sick  man  within  an  open  tent  of 
skins  ;  there  was  life  still  in  his  veins,  but  for 
all  that  he  must  die,  because  he  himself  be- 
lieved it,  and  the  people  all  around  him  believed 
It  too.  His  wife,  therefore,  had  sewn  his  cloak 
of  skin  tightly  around  him,  that  she  might 
not  be  obliged  to  touch  the  dead  ;  and  she 
asked  him — "  Wilt  thou  be  buried  upon  the 
mountains  in  .  the  eternal  snow  ?  I  will 
decorate  the  place  with  thy  boat  and  thy 
arrows.  The  spirits  of  the  mist  shall  dance 
away  over  it !  Or  wouldst  thou  rather  be 
sunk  in  the  sea  ?"  "  In  the  sea  !"  whisper- 
ed he,  and  nodded  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
"  There  thou  wilt  have  a  beautiful  summer- 
tent,"  said  the  wife  ;  "  there  will  gambol  about 
thee  thousands  of  seals ;  there  will  the  walrus 
sleep  at  thy  feet,  and  the  hunting  will  be 
certain  and  merry !"  The  children,  amid 
loud  bowlings,  toie  down  the  outstretched 
skin  from  the  window,  that  the  dying  man 
might  be  borne  out  to  the  sea — the  swelling 
sea,  which  gave  him  food  during  his  lifetime^ 
and  now  rest  in  death. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  bl 

His  funeral  monument  is  the  floating 
mountain  of  ice,  which  increases  night  and 
day.  The  seals  slumber  upon  the  icy  blocks, 
and  the  birds  of  the  tempest  whirl  about  it. 


62  A    PICTURE-ROOK 


TENTH  EVENING. 

I  knew  an  old  maid,  —  said  the  Moon, 
she  wore  every  winter  yellow  satin  trim- 
med with  fur ;  it  was  always  new ;  it  was 
always  her  unvarying  fashion ;  she  wore 
every  summer  the  same  straw  bonnet,  and,  I 
fancy,  the  very  same  blue-grey  gown.  She 
never  went  anywhere  but  to  one  old  female 
friend  of  hers  who  lived  on  the  other  side  the 
street ; — during  the  last  year,  however,  she 
did  not  even  go  there — because  her  old  friend 
was  dead.  All  solitarily  sate  my  old  maid 
working  at  her  window,  in  which,  through 
the  whole  summer,  there  stood  'beautiful 
flowers,  and  in  the  winter  lovely  cresses, 
grown  on  a  little  hillock  of  felt.  During  the 
last    month,   however,    she    no   longer   sate 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  63 

at  her  window;  but  I  knew  that  she  was 
still  alive,  because  I  had  not  seen  her  set 
out  on  that  long  journey  of  which  she  and 
her  friend  had  so  often  talked.  "Yes,"  she 
had  said,  "  w  hen  I  shall  die,  I  shall  have  to 
take  a  longer  journey  than  I  ever  took 
through  my  whole  life;  the  family  burial- 
place  lies  above  twenty  miles  from  here ; 
thither  must  I  be  borne,  and  there  shall  I 
sleep  w^ith  the  rest  of  my  kin." 

Last  night  a  carriage  drew  up  at  her 
door ;  they  carried  out  a  coffin,  and  by  that  I 
knew  that  she  was  dead ;  they  laid  straw 
around  the  coffin  and  drove  away.  There 
slept  the  quiet  old  maid,  who  for  the  last 
year  had  never  been  out  of  her  house ;  and 
the  carriage  rattled  along  the  streets  and  out 
of  the  city,  as  if  it  had  been  on  a  journey  of 
pleasure.  Upon  the  high  road  it  went  on  yet 
faster  ;  the  fellow  who  drove  looked  over  his 
shoulder  several  times  ;  I  fancy  that  he  was 
afr'aid  of  seeing  her  sitting  in  her  yellow  satin 
upon  the  coffin  behind  him ;  he  therefore 
urged  on  the  horses  thoughtlessly,  holding 
them  in  so  tightly  that  they  foamed  at  the 
mouth :  they  were  young  and  full  of  mettle : 


64  A   PICTURE-BOOK 

a  hare  ran  across  the  road,  and  off  they  set 
at  full  speed.  The  quiet  old  maid,  who 
from  one  year's  end  to  another  had  moved 
only  slowly  in  a  narrow  circle,  now  that  she 
was  dead,  drove  over  stock  and  stone  along 
the  open  high-road.  The  coffin,  which  was 
wrapped  in  matting,  was  shook  off,  and  now 
lay  upon  the  road,  whilst  horses,  driver,  and 
carriage,  sped  onward  in  a  wild  career. 

The  lark  which  flew  upward  singing 
from  the  meadow,  warbled  its  morning  song 
above  the  coffin ;  it  then  descended  and 
alighted  upon  it,  pecked  at  the  matting  with 
its  beak,  as  if  it  w^ere  rending  to  pieces  some 
strange  insect. 

The  lark  rose  upward  again,  singing  in 
the  clear  ether,  and  I  withdrew  behind  the 
rosy  clouds  of  morning. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  65 


ELEVENTH  EVENING. 

I  will  give  thee  a  picture  of  Pompeii, — 
said  the  Moon.  I  have  been  in  the 
suburbs,  the  Street  of  Tombs,  as  it  is  called, 
where  once  the  rejoicing  youths,  with  roses 
around  their  brows,  danced  with  the  lovely 
sisters  of  Lais.  Now  the  silence  of  death 
reigns  here  ;  German  soldiers  in  the  pay  of 
Naples  keep  guard  here,  and  play  at  cards 
and  dice.  A  crowd  of  foreigners,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  mountains,  wandered  into 
the  city,  accompanied  by  the  guard.  They 
wished  to  see  this  city,  arisen  from  the  grave, 
by  the  full  clear  hght  of  the  Moon  ;  and  I 
showed  to  them  the  tracks  of  the  chariot- 
wheels  in  the  streets  paved  with  broad  slabs 
of  lava ;  I  showed  to  them  the  names  upon 

f  5 


G6  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

the  doors  and  the  signs  which  still  remain 
suspended  from  the  shop-fronts  ;  they  looked 
into  the  basin  of  the  fountains  ornamented 
with  shells  and  conches ;  but  no  stream  of 
water  leaped  upwards  :  no  song  resounded 
from  the  richly  painted  chambers,  where 
dogs  of  bronze  guarded  the  doors.  It  was 
the  city  of  the  dead ;  Vesuvius  alone  still 
thundered  his  eternal  hymn. 

We  went  to  the  temple  of  Venus,  which 
is  built  of  dazzling  white  marble,  with  broad 
steps  ascending  to  its  high  altar,  and  a  ver- 
dant weeping-willow  growing  between  its 
columns.  The  air  was  exquisitely  transpa- 
rent and  blue ;  and  in  the  back-ground 
towered  Vesuvius,  black  as  night :  fires 
ascended  from  the  crater  of  the  mountain 
like  the  stem  of  a  pine-tree  ;  the  illumined 
cloud  of  smoke  hung  suspended  in  the  still- 
ness of  night,  like  the  pine-tree's  crown,  but 
red  as  blood.  Among  the  strangers  there, 
W3is  a  singer,  a  true  and  noble  being,  to  whom 
1  had  seen  homage  paid  in  the  greatest  cities 
of  Europe.  When  the  party  arrived  at  the 
amphitheatre,  they  all  seated  themselves  upon 
the  marble  steps,  and  again,  as  in  former 


"WITHOUT    PICTURES.  67 

centuries,  human  beings  occupied  a  portion 
of  that  space.  The  scene  was  now  the  same 
as  in  those  former  times  ;  the  walls  of  the 
theatre,  and  the  two  arches  in  the  back- 
ground, through  which  might  be  seen  the 
same  decoration  as  then — Nature  itself — 
the  mountains  between  Sorento  and  Amalfi. 
The  singer,  for  fun,  threw  herself  back  into 
those  ancient  times,  and  sung;  the  scene 
inspired  her ;  she  reminded  the  hstener  of  the 
wild  horse  of  Arabia,  when  it  snorts  and 
careers  away,  with  its  mane  lifted  by  the 
wind;  there  was  the  same  ease,  the  same 
security ;  she  brought  to  mind  the  agonized 
mother  at  the  cross  of  Golgotha  ;  there  was 
the  same  heartfelt,  deep  sorrow.  Once  more 
resounded  around  her,  as  had  resounded 
thousands  of  years  before,  the  plaudits  and 
acclamations  of  delight.  "Happy!  heavenly 
gifted  one !"  exclaimed  they  all.  Three 
minutes  after  and  the  scene  was  changed; 
every  one  had  departed  ;  no  tone  was  heard 
any  longer ;  the  whole  party  was  gone  ;  but 
the  ruins  still  stood  unchanged,  as  they  will 
Btand  for  centuries,  and  no  one  knows  of  the 


by  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

applause  of  the  moment — of  the  beautiful 
singer — of  her  tones  and  her  smile.  All  is 
past  and  forgotten ;  even  to  me  is  this 
hour  a  perished  memory. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  69 


TWELFTH  EVENING. 

I  peeped  in  at  a  critic's  window, — said  the 
Moon, — in  a  city  of  Germany.  The  room 
was  filled  with  excellent  furniture,  books,  and 
a  chaos  of  papers ;  several  young  men  were 
sitting  there;  the  critic  himself  stood  at  his 
desk ;  two  small  books,  both  by  young 
authors,  were  about  to  be  reviewed.  "  One 
of  these,"  said  he,  "  has  been  sent  to  me  ;  I 
have  not  read  it  though — but  it  is  beautifully 
got  up  ;  what  say  you  of  its  contents  ?" 

"  O,"  said  one  of  the  young  men,  who  was 
himself  a  poet,  "  there  is  a  deal  that  is  good 
in  it ;  very  little  to  expunge ;  but,  he  is  a 
young  man,  and  the  verses  might  be  better ! 
There  is  a  healthy  tone  in  the  thoughts — 
but  they  are,  after  all,  such  thoughts  as  every- 


70  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

bodv  has ! — but  as  to  that,  where  does  one 
find  anything  new?  You  may  very  well 
prais'.e  him,  but  I  never  believe  that  he  will 
turn  out  anything  of  a  poet.  He  has  read  a 
deal,  however  ;  is  an  extiaordinary  orientalist, 
and  has  sound  judgment.  He  it  was  who 
wrote  that  beautiful  critique  of  my  Fan- 
cies of  Domestic  Life.  One  ought  to  be 
gentle  towards  a  young  man." 

'•  But  he  is  a  thorough  ass  !'  said  another 
gentleman  in  the  room ;  "  nothing  worse  in 
poetry  than  mediocrity,  and  he  does  not  get 
above  that !" 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  a  third,  "  and  his  aunt 
makes  herself  so  happy  about  him.  She  it 
was,  Mr.  Critic,  who  obtained  so  many  sub- 
scribers' names  to  your  last  translation." 

"The  good  woman!  yes,  I  have  given  a 
short  notice  of  the  book.  Unmistakeable  ta- 
lent !  a  welcome  gift !  a  flower  out  of  the 
garden  of  poesy ;  beautifully  got  out,  and  so 
on.  But  the  other  book — he  shall  catch  it !  I 
had  to  buy  it. — I  hear  it  is  praised ;  he  has 
genius,  don't  you  think?" 

"  That  is  the  general  opinion,"  said  the 
poet,  "  but  there  is  something  wild  about  it." 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  71 

"  It  will  do  him  good  to  find  fault  and  cut 
him  up  a  little,  else  he  will  be  getting  too  good 
an  opinion  of  himself !" 

"  But  that  is  unreasonable,"  interrupted  a 
fourth  ;  "  don't  let  us  dwell  too  much  on  tri- 
fling faults,  but  rejoice  in  the  good — and  ther 
is  much  here — though  he  thrusts  in  good  and 
bad  altogether." 

" Unmistakeable  talent!"  wrote  down  the 
critic  ;  "  the  usual  examples  of  caielessness. 
That  he  also  can  write  unlucky  verse,  may 
be  seen  at  page  five-and-twenty,  where  two 
hiatuses  occur  :  the  study  of  the  ancients  to 
be  recommended,  and  so  on." 

I  went  away,  said  the  Moon, — and  peep- 
ed through  the  window  into  the  aunt's  house 
where  sate  our  honored  poet,  the  tame  one,  the 
worshipped  of  all  the  guests,  and  was  happy. 

"  I  sought  out  the  other  poet,  the  wild  one, 
who  also  was  in  a  great  party  of  one  of  his 
patrons,  where  they  talked  about  the  other 
poet's  book.  "  I  shall  also  read  yours  !"  said 
Mecienas,  "  but,  hcjnestly  speaking,  you  know 
I  never  say  to  you  what  I  do  not  mean  ;  I  do 
not  expect  great  things  from  it.  You  are  too 
wild  for  me !  too  fantastic — but  I  acknow- 


72  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

ledge  thai  as  a  man  you  are  highly  respecta- 
ble!" 

A  young  girl  who  sat  in  a  corner  read  in 
a  book : — 

To  the  dust  goes  the  poet's  glory, 
And  common-place  to  fame  !— 

That  is  the  trite  old  story, 
And  'twill  ever  be  the  same ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  73 


THIRTEENTH   EVENINQ. 

The  Moon  told  me  as  follows : — ^Therc 
lie  two  peasants'  cottages  by  the  road  through 
the  w^ood.  The  doors  are  low,  and  the  win- 
dows are  irregular,  but  all  around  them  grow 
buckthorn  and  barberries  ;  the  roof  is  mossy 
and  grown  over  with  yellow-flowered  stone- 
crop  and  houseleek ;  nothing  but  cabbages 
and  potatoes  grow  in  the  little  garden,  but 
there  grows  in  the  hedge  an  elder-tree,  and 
under  this  sate  a  little  girl ;  and  there  she 
sate  with  her  brown  eyes  riveted  upon  an  old 
oak  tree  between  the  houses.  This  tree  has 
a  tall  and  decayed  hole,  the  top  of  it  is  sawn 
off,  and  there  the  stork  has  built  his  nest ; 
there  he  stood  and  clattered  with  his  beak. 

g 


/4  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

A  little  boy  came  out  of  the  cottage  and 
placed  himself  by  the  little  girl's  side  ;  they 
were  brother  and  sister. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  cried  he. 

"  I  am  looking  at  the  stork,"  she  replied  ; 
"  the  neighbor  told  me  that  this  evening  the 
stork  will  bring  us  either  a  little  brother  or 
sister ;  and  so  now  I  will  stand  and  watch 
when  they  come." 

"  The  storks  do  not  bring  anything,"  said 
the  boy.  "  The  neighbor's  wife  told  me  the 
same  thing  ;  but  she  laughed  while  she  said 
it,  and  so  I  asked  her  if  she  durst  say  as  sure 
as  heaven,  to  it,  but  she  dared  not,  and  there- 
fore I  know  that  the  story  about  the  stork  is 
only  what  they  tell  us  children." 

"  Oh,  really  ! "  said  the  Httle  girl. 

"  And  I'll  tell  thee  what,"  said  the  boy ; 
"  It  is  our  Lord  himself  that  brings  little  ba- 
bies ;  he  has  them  under  his  coat ;  but  no- 
body can  see  our  Lord  now,  and  therefore  we 
do  not  see  him  when  he  comes." 

At  that  same  moment  the  twigs  of  the 
elder-tree  were  moved;  the  children  folded 
their  hands  and  looked  one  at  the  other,  for 
they  thought  that  it  was  our  Lord  passing 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  76 

along  with  the  little  ones.  They  stood  side 
by  side,  and  took  hold  of  each  other's  hand. 

The  house-door  opened,  and  out  came  the 
neighbor. 

"  Come  in  now,"  said  she,  "  and  see  what 
the  stork  has  brought ;  he  has  brought  a  lit- 
tle brother  !" 

The  children  nodded  their  heads  ;  they 
knew  very  well  that  the  little  brother  was 
come. 


76  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


FOURTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  passed  over  Luneburg  Heath, — said  the 
Moon, — a  solitary  house  stood  by  tlie  road- 
side ;  some  leafless  trees  grew  beside  it,  and 
among  these  sung  a  nightingale  which  had 
lost  its  way.  In  the  severity  of  the  night  it 
must  perish ;  that  was  its  song  of  death 
which  I  heard.  With  the  early  twilight 
there  came  along  the  road  a  company  of  em- 
igrant peasants,  who  were  on  their  way  to 
Bremen  or  Hamburgh,  to  take  ship  for  Amer- 
ica, where  happiness — the  so  much  dreamed- 
of  happiness — they  expected  should  spring 
up  for  them.  The  women  carried  their 
youngest  children  upon  their  backs,  the  older 
ones  sprang  along  by  their  side  ;  a  poor  mis- 
erable horse  dragged  a  car,  on  which  were  a 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  77 

few  articles  of  household  furniture.  The  cold 
wind  blew  ;  the  little  girl  clung  closer  to  her 
mother,  who  looked  up  to  my  round  waning 
face  and  thought  upon  her  bitter  want. 

Her  thoughts  were  those  of  the  whole 
company,  and  therefore  the  red  glimmering 
of  daylight  was  like  the  evangile  of  the  sun 
of  prosperity  which  sho'^ild  again  rise.  They 
heard  the  song  of  the  dying  nightingale  ;  it 
was  to  them  no  false  prophet,  but  a  foreteller 
of  happiness.  The  wind  whistled,  but  they 
understood  not  the  song ;  "  Sail  securely 
across  the  sea  !  thou  hast  paid  for  the  long 
voyage  with  all  that  thou  art  possessed  of; 
poor  an.^  helpless  shalt  thou  set  foot  on 
thy  land  of  Canaan.  Thou  mayst  sell  thy- 
self, thy  wife,  and  thy  child,  yet  you  shall 
none  of  you  suffer  long.  Behind  the  broad 
fragrant  leaf  sits  the  goddess  of  death ;  her 
kiss  of  welcome  breathes  consuming  fever  in- 
to thy  blood,  far  away,  far  away,  over  the 
swelling  waters  !'' 

The  emigrant  company  listened  joyfully 
to  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  which  they 
thought  announced  to  them  happiness.  Day 
beamed  from  behind  light  clouds,  and  the 


78  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

peasant  people  went  over  the  heath  to  the 
church;  the  darkly-apparelled  women,  with 
their  milk-white  linen  around  their  heads, 
looked  like  figures  which  had  stepped  forth 
from  the  old  church  paintings ;  all  around 
them  was  nothing  but  the  vast  and  death 
like  landscape,  the  withered  brown  heath — 
dark,  leafless  plains,  in  the  midst  of  white 
sand-banks.  The  women  carried  their  hymn- 
books  in  their  hands,  and  advanced  towards 
the  church.  Oh,  pray  !  pray  for  them  who 
wander  onward  to  their  graves  on  the  other 
Bide  of  the  heaving  water ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  79 


FIFTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  know  a  theatrical  Clown, — said  the 
Moon, — the  public  applauds  when  it  sees 
him ;  every  one  of  his  movements  is  comic, 
and  throws  the  house  into  convulsions  of 
laughter,  and  yet  he  is  not  moved  thereby : 
that  is  his  peculiarity.  When  he  was  yet  a 
child,  and  played  with  other  boys,  he  was 
already  a  punchinello.  Nature  had  made 
him  one  ;  had  given  him  one  lump  upon  his 
back,  and  another  upon  his  breast.  The 
inner  man,  however — the  spiritual — that  was 
really  well-formed.  No  human  being  had 
deeper  feeling,  or  greater  elasticity  of  mind 
than  he.  The  theatre  was  his  ideal-world. 
Had  he  been  slender  and  well  proportioned, 
then  he  might  have  become  a  first-rate  tragic 


80  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

actor,  for  the  great,  the  heroic,  filled  his  soul ; 
but  he  was  obliged  to  be  the  Clown.  His 
sufferings,  even,  and  his  melancholy  increased 
the  comic  expression  of  his  strongly-marked 
countenance,  and  excited  the  laughter  of  .the 
crowded  public  who  applauded  their  favorite. 
The  pretty  little  Columbine  was  friendly  and 
kind  to  him,  and  yet  she  preferred  marrying 
Harlequin.  It  would  have  been  too  comic  in 
reality  to  have  married  the  Clown  ;  like  the 
union  of  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast."  When  the 
Clown  Avas  most  out  of  humor,  she  was  the  only 
one  who  could  make  him  smile — nay,  even 
burst  into  peals  of  laughter.  First  of  all  she 
would  be  melancholy  with  him,  then  rather 
cheerful,  and  at  last  full  of  fun. 

"I  know  what  it  is  thou  art  in  want  of  P 
said  she — "  yes,  it  is  this  love  !"  and  so  he  was 
obliged  to  laugh. 

"  Me  and  love  !"'  exclaimed  he.  "  That 
would  be  a  merry  thing !  How  the  public 
would  applaud." 

"  It  is  love !"  continued  she ;  and  added, 
with  comic  pathos — "  It  is  me  that  you  love !" 

"  Yes  !  and  yet  there  are  people  who  say 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  love  !"    The  poor 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  81 

Clown  sprung  up  into  the  air,  he  was  so 
diverted :  his  melancholy  was  now  gone. 
And  yet  she  had  spoken  the  truth :  he  did 
love  her — loved  her  like  the  sublime  and  great 
in  art. 

On  her  wedding-day  he  was  more  amusing 
than  ever.  At  night  he  wept :  had  the  public 
seen  his  distressed  countenance  then,  they 
would  have  applauded  him  ! 

A  few  days  ago  Columbine  died.  On  the 
day  of  her  funeral  Harlequin's  appearance 
was  excused  on  the  stage,  for  he  really  was  a 
mourning  husband.  The  manager,  however, 
was  obliged  to  give  something  more  merry 
than  common,  in  order  that  the  public  should 
not  miss  too  much  the  lovely  Columbine  and 
the  light-bodied  Harlequin,  and  for  this  reason 
it  behoved  the  Clown  to  be  doubly  entertain- 
ing. He  danced  and  sprung  aloft  with  de- 
spair at  his  heart,  and  the  public  clapped  their 
hands  and  shouted — "  Bravo,  bravissimn  '" 
The  clown  was  called  for  when  the  perlorm- 
ance  was  over.     Oh,  he  was  invaluable  ! 

This    evening,  after    the   play,  the   poor 
little  man  walked  out  from  the  city  tc  the 
solitary  churchyard.     The  garland  of  flowers 
6 


82  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

was  withered  on  Columbine's  grave ;  he  sate 
down.  It  was  something  worth  painting. 
His  hands  under  his  chin,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  moon  ;  it  was  hke  a  monumental  figure. 
A  clown  upon  a  grave !  very  peculiar  and 
very  comic  !  Had  the  public  seen  their  favorite 
then,  how  they  would  have  shouted — "  Bravo, 
Clown  !  bravo,  bravissimo !" 


WiTHOUT    PICTURES.  83 


SIXTEENTH  EVENING 

Listen  to  what  the  Moon  said. — I  have 
seen  the  cadet,  become  an  officer,  dress  him- 
self for  the  first  time  in  his  splendid  uniform  j 
I  have  seen  the  young  girl  in  her  beautiful 
ball-dress  ;  the  young  princely  bride  happy  in 
her  festival  attire  ;  but  the  felicity  of  none  of 
these  could  equal  that  which  this  evening  I 
saw  in  a  child,  a  little  girl  of  four  years. 
They  had  just  put  her  on  a  new  blue  frock 
and  a  new  pink  bonnet.  The  beautiful  things 
were  scarcely  on  when  they  called  for  candles, 
because  the  moon-light  through  the  window 
was  too  faint ;  they  must  have  other  light. 
There  stood  the  little  girl  as  stiff  as  a  doll, 
her  arms  stretched  out  from  her  frock,  her 
fingers  spread  out  wide  from  each  other — and 


84  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

oh !  how  her  eyes,  her  whole  being,  beamed 
with  deUght ! 

"To-morrow  you  shall  go  out  into  the 
street,"  said  the  mother ;  and  the  little  one 
looked  up  towards  her  bonnet  and  down  to- 
wards her  frock,  and  smiled  joyfully. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  what  will  the  dogs 
think,  when  they  see  me  so  beautifully  dress- 
ed !" 


UUTHOUr  PICTURES.  8 J 


SEVENTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  have, — said  the  Moon, — told  thee  about 
Pompeii,  that  corpse  of  a  city  amongst  hving 
cities.  1  know  another,  one  still  more 
strange ;  not  the  corpse,  but  the  ghost  of  a 
city.  On  all  sides  where  the  fountain  splashes 
into  a  marble  basin,  I  seem  to  hear  stories  of 
the  floating  city.  Yes,  the  fountain-streams 
can  tell  them !  The  billows  on  the  shore 
sing  of  them.  Over  the  surface  of  the  sea 
there  often  floats  a  mist,  that  is  the  widow's 
weeds.  The  sea's  bridegroom  is  dead  ;  his 
palace  and  city  are  now  a  mausoleum.  Do3t 
thou  know  this  city?  The  rolling  of  the 
chariot-wheels,  or  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoof,  were  never  heard  in  its  streets.  The 
fish  swims,  and  like  a  spectre  glides  the  black 
gondola  over  the  green  w^ater. 


86  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

I  will, — continued  the  Moon, — show  thee 
the  forum  of  the  city,  the  city's  great  square, 
and  then  thou  wilt  think  it  to  be  a  city  for 
adventures.  Grass  grows  between  the  broad 
flag-stones,  and  thousands  of  tame  pigeons 
fly  circling  in  the  twilight  around  the  lofty 
tower.  On  three  sides  thou  art  surrounded 
by  colonnades.  The  Turk,  with  his  long 
pipe,  sits  silently  beneath  them  ;  the  hand- 
some Greek-lad  leans  against  a  pillar,  and 
looks  up  to  the  elevated  trophies,  the  tall 
masts,  the  memorial  of  the  ancient  power. 
The  flag  hangs  drooping  like  mourning 
crape ;  a  girl  stands  there  to  rest  herself,  she 
has  set  down  the  heavy  buckets  of  water, 
whilst  the  yoke  on  wliich  she  sustained  them 
rests  upon  her  shoulders,  and  she  supports 
herself  on  the  column  of  victory.  That  is 
not  a  fairy  palace  but  a  church  which  thou 
seest  before  thee  !  the  gilded  doirie,  the  gilded 
balls  around  it,  shine  in  my  beams ;  the 
magnificent  bronze  horses  upon  it  have 
traveled  about  like  bronze  horses  in  a  fairy 
tale  ;  they  have  traveled  thither,  away  from 
their  place,  and  then  again  back!  Seest 
thou  the  beautiful  painting  on  walls  and  win- 


"WITHOUT    PICTURES.  87 

dow  panes  ?  It  is  as  if  some  genius  had  done 
the  will  of  a  child  and  thus  decorated  this  ex- 
traordinary temple.  Dost  thou  see  the  winged 
lion  upon  the  pillar  ?  Gold  yet  shines  upon 
it,  but  the  wings  are  bound,  the  lion  is  dead 
because  the  king  of  the  sea  is  dead  ;  the  vast 
halls  are  empty,  and  where  once  hung  costly 
pictures  the  naked  walls  are  now  seen. 
Lazzaroni  sleep  under  the  arches,  where  at 
one  time  only  the  high  noble  dared  to  tread. 
Either  from  the  deep  well  or  from  the  chamber 
of  the  leaden  roof,  near  to  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs,  sounds  forth  a  groan,  whilst  tamborines 
are  heard  from  the  painted  gondola  as  the 
bridal-ring  is  cast  from  the  glittering  Bucen- 
taur  to  Adria,  the  queen  of  the  sea.  Adiia, 
wrap  thyself  in  mist !  let  the  widow's  veil 
cover  the  breast,  and  cast  it  over  thy  bride- 
groom's mausoleum  ; — the  marble-builder,  tlie 
spectre-like,  Yenice." 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


EIGHTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  looked  down  upon  a  great  theatre, — said 
the  Moon, — the  whole  house  was  full  of  spec- 
tators, because  a  new  actor  made  his  debut; 
my  beams  fell  upon  a  little  window  in  the 
wall ;  a  painted  face  pressed  its  forehead 
against  the  glass ;  it  was  the  hero  of  the 
nigiit.  The  chivalric  beard  curled  upon  his 
chin  ;  l)ut  there  were  tears  in  the  man's  eyes, 
because  he  had  been  hissed — hissed  with 
reason.  Poor  fellow !  but  the  realm  of  art 
will  not  endure  the  feeble.  He  deeply  felt 
and  passionately  loved  art,  but  she  did  not 
love  him. 

The  prompter's  bell  rung ; — according  to 
the  piece,  the  hero  stepped  forth  with  a  bold 
and  determined  air — thus  had  he  to  appeal 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  89 

Defore  a  public  which  burst  into  peals  of 
laughter. — The  piece  was  ended  ;  I  saw  a 
man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  steal  away  down  the 
steps;  it  was  he,  the  spirit-crushed  cavalier; 
the  sex  van ts  of  the  theatre  whispered  to  each 
other  as  he  passed.  I  followed  the  poor 
wretch  home  to  his  chamber.  Hanging  is 
such  an  ignominious  death,  and  people  have 
not  always  poison  at  hand.  I  knoAV  that  he 
thought  of  both.  He  looked  at  his  pale  face 
in  the  glass ;  half  closed  his  eyes  to  see 
whether  he  would  look  handsome  as  a  corpse. 
It  is  possible  for  people  to  be  unfortunate  in 
the  highest  degree,  and  yet  in  the  highest 
degree  vain  at  the  same  time.  He  thought 
upon  death,  upon  self-murder  ;  I  believe  he 
wept  in  pity  of  himself — he  wept  bitterly, 
and  when  people  have  had  a  good  fit  of  cry- 
ing they  do  not  kill  themselves. 

A  year  has  passed  since  then.  A  comedy 
was  acted,  but  this  time  in  a  little  theatre,  by 
a  poor  vagrant  company.  I  saw  again  the 
well-known  face,  the  painted  cheeks,  the 
curled  beard.  He  again  looked  up  to  me 
and  smiled — and  yet  for  all  that  he  had  been 
hissed — hissed  scarcely  a  minute  before  in 
h 


90  A    PICTUilE-BOOK 

that  miserable  theatre,  hissed  by  that  miser 
able  audience  ! 

This  very  evening  a  poor  hearse  has 
driven  out  of  the  gate  of  the  town  ;  not  a 
single  being  accompanied  it.  There  lay  upon 
it  a  suicide,  our  painted  and  derided  hero. 
The  driver  was  the  only  attendant ;  no  one 
followed,  no  one  except  the  Moon.  In  an 
angle  of  the  churchyard  wall  is  the  self- 
murdered  laid ;  nettles  will  soon  spring  up 
thereon  ;  there  will  grave-diggers  cast  thorns 
and  weeds  from  other  graves. 


WTT-ROTTT    PICTURES.  ^1 


NINETEENTH  EVENING. 

I  come  from  Rome, — said  the  Moon, — 
there,  in  the  middle  of  the  city,  upon  one  of 
the  seven  hills,  lie  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of 
the  Caesars  ;  a  wild  fig-tree  grows  in  a  chink 
of  the  wall,  and  cov^ers  its  nakedness  with  its 
broad,  gray-green  leaves  ;  the  ass  wanders 
over  the  heaps  of  rubbish  among  tlie  laurel 
hedges,  and  feasts  on  the  golden  thistle. 
From  this  spot,  whence  the  Roman  eagle 
once  flew  forth,  went,  and  saw,  and  conquer- 
ed, the  entrance  is  now  through  a  small,  mis- 
erable house,  smeared  with  clay,  between 
two  broken  pillars  ;  tendrils  of  the  vine  hang 
down,  like  a  mourning  garland,  over  the  nar- 
row window.  An  old  woman,  with  her  little 
grand-daughter  lived  there  ;  they  ruled  now 


92  A    PICTURK-BUUA 

in  the  palace  of  the  Caesars,  and  showed  to 
strangers  the  buried  treasures.  There  remains 
of  the  rich  throne-room  nothing  but  a  naked 
wall ;  the  shadow  of  the  black  cypress  points 
to  the  place  where  the  throne  stood.  The 
earth  lies  to  the  depth  of  some  feet  above  the 
broken  floor  ;  the  little  girl,  now  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  palace  of  the  Caesars,  often  sits 
there  upon  her  little  stool,  when  the  evening 
bell  rings.  The  keyhole  in  the  door,  close 
beside  her,  she  calls  her  balcony,  and  through 
it  she  sees  over  half  of  Rome,  as  far  as  the 
mighty  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

It  was  silent  as  ever,  this  evening,  and 
the  little  girl  came  homeward  in  my  full, 
bright  light.  She  carried  upon  her  head  an 
antiquely-formed  earthen  jug  filled  with  wa- 
ter ;  her  feet  were  bare ;  the  black  petticoat 
and  the  little  chemise  sleeves  were  in  tatters  ; 
I  kissed  the  child's  beautiful  round  shoulder, 
her  black  eyes,  and  her  dark  shining  hair. 
She  mounted  up  the  steps  of  the  house,  which 
were  steep,  and  were  formed  of  broken  pieces 
of  wall  and  a  shattered  capital.  The  bright- 
colored  lizard  glided  ti)nidly  past  her  feet, 
but  she  was  not  frightened ;  s]\e  raised  her 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  9S 

hand  to  ring  at  the  door ;  there  hung-  a  hare's 
foot  in  the  packthread,  which  is  now  the  bell- 
pull  at  the  palace  of  the  Caesars.  She  stood 
stock-still  for  a  moment ;  what  was  she  think- 
ing about  ?  Perhaps  of  the  beautiful  Jesus- 
child  clothed  in  gold  and  silvej,  in  the  chapel 
Delow,  where  the  silver  lamp  was  burning, 
and  where  her  little-girl  friends  were  singing 
in  chorus  as  she  knew  ;  I  cannot  tell  if  it  was 
of  this  she  thought !  but  again  she  made  a 
movement,  and  stumbled ;  the  earthen  jug 
fell  from  her  head  and  was  shivered  in  pieces 
upon  the  broken  marble  pavement.  She 
burst  into  tears ;  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
the  palace  of  the  Caesars  wept  over  the  poor, 
broken,  earthen  jug ;  she  stood  with  her  bare 
feet  and  wept,  and  dared  not  to  pull  at  the 
pack-thread  string,  the  bell-pull  at  the  palace 
of  the  Caesars. 


94  A    PTCTURK-BOOK 


TWEIS-TIETH  EVENING. 

For  upwards  of  fourteen  days  the  Moon 
had  not  shone ;  now  I  saw  it  again,  round 
and  bright,  standing  above  the  slowly  ascend- 
ing clouds ;  listen  to  what  the  Moon  related 
to  me.  I  followed  a  caravan  from  one  of  the 
cities  of  Fez;  it  made  a  halt  upon  one  of  the 
salt  plains,  which  glittered  like  an  ice-field, 
and  where  one  little  stretch  only  was  cover- 
ed with  moveable  sand.  The  eldest  of  the 
caravan,  with  his  water-flask  hanging  at  his 
belt,  and  a  bag  of  unleavened  bread  around 
his  neck,  marked  out  a  square  in  the  sand 
with  his  staff,  and  wrote  therein  some  words 
of  the  koran ;  within  this  consecrated  spot 
the  whole  caravan  drew  up.  A  young  mer- 
chant, a  child  of  the  sun,  as  1  could  see  by 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  95 

his  eye  and  by  his  beautiful  form,  rode 
thoughtfully  upon  his  white  and  spirited 
charger.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  his 
young  and  lovely  wife.  It  was  only  two 
days  since  the  camel,  adorned  with  skins  and 
costly  shawls,  bore  her,  a  beautiful  bride, 
around  the  walls  of  the  city  ;  drums  and  bag- 
pipes resounded,  women  sang,  and  shouts  of 
joy  were  sent  forth  from  those  who  surround- 
ed the  camel,  the  bridegroom  shouted  the 
gayest  and  the  loudest  of  them  all,  and  now 
— now  he  rode  with  the  caravan  across  the 
desert.  I  accompanied  them  for  many  nights  ; 
saw  them  rest  beside  the  wells,  among  the 
crested  palm  trees  ;  they  stabbed  with  a  knife 
the  fallen  camel  and  cooked  the  flesh  with 
fire.  My  beams  cooled  the  burning  sand  ; 
my  beams  showed  them  the  black  masses  of 
rock,  islands  of  death  in  the  immense  ocean 
of  sand.  No  hostile  power  had  they  met 
with  upon  their  trackless  path  ;  no  storm 
was  abroad ;  no  pillars  of  sand  carried  death 
over  the  caravan. 

The  lovely  wife  j^rayed  to  heaven  for  her 
husband  and  father.  "  Are  they  dead?"  in- 
quired she  from  my  gilded  horn.     "Are  they 


96  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

dead  ? "  inquired  slie  from  my  beaming  ere* 
cent.  The  desert  now  lies  behind  them  ;  on 
this  very  evening  they  rest  under  the  tall 
palm  trees,  around  which  circle  the  storks 
with  their  long  wings  ;  the  pelican  rushes 
down  upon  them  from  the  branches  of  the 
mimosa.  The  luxuriant  vegetation  is  tramp- 
led down  by  the  many  feet  of  the  elephants; 
a  troop  of  negro  people  come  onward  from  a 
distant  fair ;  women  with  copper  buttons  in 
their  black  hair,  and  in  indigo-colored  petti- 
coats drive  on  the  laden  oxen  on  which  the 
naked  black  children  lie  asleep.  One  negro 
leads  in  a  thong  a  lion's  cub,  which  he  had 
purchased ;  they  approach  the  caravan  ;  the 
young  mercJiant  sits  immoveable,  silent  ;  he 
thinks  upon  his  lovely  wife,  dreams  in  this 
negro  land  of  his  white  fragrant  flower  on 
the  other  side  the  desert ;  he  lilts  his  head — 
A  cloud  passed  over  the  Moon,  and  again  a 
cloud.     I  heard  no  more  that  nijrlit. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  97 


TWENTY-FIRST  EVENING. 

I  saw  a  little  girl  weeping, — said  the  Moon, 
— she  wept  because  of  the  wickedness  of  the 
world.  She  had  had  a  present  made  her  of 
the  most  beautiful  doll — Oh,  it  was  a  doll,  so 
lovely  and  delicate,  not  at  all  fitted  to  strug- 
gle with  misfortune !  But  the  little  girl's 
brother,  a  tall  lad,  had  taken  the  doll  and  set 
it  up  in  a  high  tree  in  the  garden,  and  then 
had  run  away.  The  little  girl  could  not 
reach  the  doll,  could  not  help  it  down,  and 
therefore  she  cried.  The  doll  cried  too,  and 
stretched  out  her  arms  from  among  the  green 
branches,  and  looked  so  distressed.  Yes,  this 
was  one  of  the  misfortunes  of  life  of  which  her 
mamma  had  so  often  spoken.  Oh,  the  poor 
doll !     It  already  began  to  get  dusk,  and  then 

i  7 


98  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

dismal  night  would  come  !  And  was  she  to 
sit  up  there  in  the  tree,  and  by  herself  all 
night?  No,  the  little  girl  would  not  endure 
the  thought  of  that. 

"  I  will  stay  with  you  !"  said  she,  although 
she  was  not  at  all  courageous.  She  began 
already  to  see  quite  plainly  the  little  elves,  in 
their  tall  pointed  hats,  peeping  from  between 
the  bushes,  and  down  the  dusky  alleys  danc- 
ed tall  spectres,  which  came  nearer  and  near- 
er. She  stretched  her  hands  up  towards  the 
tree  in  which  the  doll  sate,  and  they  laughed 
and  pointed  their  fingers  at  her.  Ah,  how 
terrified  was  the  little  girl !  "  But  if  one  has 
not  done  anything  wrong,"  thought  she,  "  no- 
tliing  can  do  one  any  harm  !  Have  I  done 
anything  wrong  ?" 

She  thought.  "Ah,  yes!"  said  she,  "I 
laughed  at  the  poor  duck  with  the  red  rag 
tied  round  its  leg ;  it  hobbled  so  comically, 
and  that  made  me  laugh ;  but  it  is  wrong  to 
laugh  at  poor  animals." 

"Have  you  laughed  at  poor  animals?" 
inquired  she,  looking  up  to  the  doll,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  the  doll  shook  her  head. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


TWENTY-SECOND  EVENING. 

I  looked  into  the  Tyrol, — said  the  Moon,— 
I  caused  the  dark  fir-trees  to  cast  strong  sha 
dows  upon  the  rocks.  I  saw  the  holy  Chris 
topher,  with  the  child  Jesus  upon  his  shoul- 
der,  as  he  stood  there  against  the  wall  of  the 
houses,  colossal  in  size  from  the  foundation 
to  the  gable.  The  holy  Florian  carries  water 
to  the  bin-ning  house,  and  Christ  hangs  bleed- 
ing upon  the  great  cross  by  the  wayside. 
These  are  old  pictures  for  the  new  generation  : 
I  have,  nevertheless,  seen  them  depart  one 
after  another. 

Aloft,  in  the  projection  of  the  mountains,  a 
solitary  nunnery  hangs  like  a  swallow's  nest 
Two  sisters  stood  up  in  the  tower,  and  rung 
the  bell.     They  were  both  young,  and  there- 


100  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

fore  they  looked  out  beyond  the  mountains 
into  the  world.  A  traveling  carriage  drove 
below  along  the  high  road,  the  postillion's 
horn  resounded,  and  the  poor  nuns  riveted 
with  kindred  thoughts  their  eyes  upon  it : 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  younger  of 
the  two.  The  horn  sounded  fainter  and 
fainter  :  the  bell  of  the  nunnerv  overpowered 
its  dying  tones. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  101 


TWENTY-THIRD   EVENING. 

Listen  to  what  the  Moon  said. — Many 
years  ago,  in  Copenhagen,  I  peeped  in  at  the 
window  of  a  poor  chamber.  The  father  and 
mother  slept,  but  the  httle  son  slept  not.  I 
saw  the  flowered  cotton  bed-hangings  move, 
and  the  child  peeped  out.  1  fancied  at  first 
that  he  was  looking  at  the  Bornholm  time- 
piece, it  was  so  beautifully  painted  with  red 
and  green,  and  a  cuckoo  sate  on  the  top  of 
it ;  there  were  heavy  leaden  weights,  and  the 
pendulum  with  its  shining  brass  surface, 
went  to  and  fro,  "  dik,  dik  !"  but  it  was  not 
that  which  he  was  looking  at — no,  it  was  his 
mother's  spinning-wheel,  which  stood  under 
the  clock.  That  was  the  most  precious  piece 
of  furniture  in  the  whole  house  to  the  boy, 
but  he  did  not  dare  to  touch  it,  for  if  he  did. 


102  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

he  got  a  rap  on  the  fingers.  All  the  time  hia 
mother  was  spinning  he  would  sit  beside  her, 
and  watch  the  humming  spole  and  the  turn- 
ing wheel,  and  he  had  the  while  his  own  pe- 
culiar thoughts  about  them.  Ah !  if  he  could 
only  dare  thus  to  spin  on  the  wheel !  Father 
and  mother  were  asleep  ;  he  looked  at  them, 
he  looked  at  the  wheel,  and  presently  after- 
wards one  little  naked  foot  was  pushed  out 
of  bed,  and  then  another  naked  foot,  then  two 
little  legs — thump  !  stood  he  upon  the  floor. 
He  turned  himself  once  round,  however,  to 
see  whether  father  and  mother  slept.  Yes, 
that  they  did !  and  so  he  went  softly,  very 
softly — in  nothing  but  his  short  little  shirt — 
to  the  wheel,  and  began  to  spin.  The  cord 
flew  ofl*,  and  the  wheel  ran  round  faster  than 
ever.  T  kissed  his  yellow  hair  and  his  light 
blue  eyes  ;  it  was  a  lovely  picture.  At  that 
moment  the  mother  awoke — the  curtains 
moved — she  looked  out  and  thought  about 
elves,  or  some  other  kind  of  little  sprite. 

"  In  the  name  of  Jesus  !"  said  she  ;  and  full 
of  alarm,  awoke  her  husband.  He  opened 
his  eyes,  rubbed  them  with  his  hands,  and 
looked  at  the  busy  little  creature. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  103 

"  It  is  actuall}^  Bertel !"  said  he. 

I  withdrew  my  gaze  horn  that  poor  cham- 
l/er — I  can  see  so  far  around  me !  I  looked  at 
that  very  moment  into  the  hall  of  the  Vatican 
where  the  marble  gods  stand.  I  illumined 
the  group  of  the  Laocoon  ;  the  stone  seemed 
to  sigh.  I  pressed  my  quiet  kiss  upon  the 
muses'  breast;  I  fancy  it  heaved.  But  my 
beams  tarried  longest  upon  the  group  of  the 
Nile,  upon  the  colossal  god.  He  lay  full  of 
thought,  supporting  himself  upon  sphinxes : 
dreaming  there  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  the 
fleeting  year  ;  little  loves  played  around  him 
with  crocodiles.  In  the  horn  of  plenty  sate, 
with  folded  arms,  and  gazing  upon  the  great 
river-god,  a  very  little  love,  a  true  picture  of 
the  little  boy  with  the  wheel ;  it  was  the  same 
expression.  Living  and  charming,  here  stood 
the  little  marble  child ;  and  yet  more  than  a 
thousand  times  had  the  wheel  of  the  year 
gone  round  since  it  stood  forth  in  stone.  Just 
so  many  times  as  the  boy  in  the  poor  cham- 
ber turned  the  wheel  has  the  great  wheel  of 
time  hummed  round,  and  still  shall  hum,  be- 
fore the  age  creates  another  marble-god  like 
this. 


104  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

See,  it  is  now  many  years  since  then.  Last 
evening, — continued  the  Moon, — I  looked 
down  upon  a  creek  in  the  east  coast  of  Zea 
land.  Beautiful  woods  were  there,  lofty 
mounds,  an  old  mansion-house  with  red  walls, 
Fwans  in  the  moat,  and  a  little  trading"  town, 
with  its  church  among  the  apple-orchards.  A 
fleet  of  boats,  each  bearing  a  torch,  glided 
over  the  unruffled  water ;  it  was  not  to  catch 
fish  that  the  torches  were  burning — no !  every- 
thing was  festal !  Music  sounded,  a  song 
was  sung  ;  and  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the 
boats  stood  he  whom  they  honored,  a  tall, 
strong  man  in  a  large  cloak ;  he  had  blue 
eyes,  and  long  white  hair.  I  knew  him,  and 
thought  upon  tlie  Vatican,  and  the  Nile-group, 
and  all  the  marble  gods  ;  I  thought  upon  the 
poor  little  chamber  where  little  Bertel  sate  in 
his  short  shirt  and  spun. 

The  w^heel  of  time  has  gone  round ;  new 
gods  have  ascended  from  the  marble.  "  Hur- 
rah !"  resounded  from  the  boats — "  Hurrah  for 
Bertel  Thorwaldsen !" 


WITHOUT    PICTURES,  105 


TWENTY-FOURTH  EVENING. 

I  will  give  thee  a  picture  from  Frankfort, 
— said  the  Moon  : — I  took  notice  of  one  build- 
ing in  particular.  It  was  not  the  birth-place 
of  Goethe,  nor  was  it  the  old  town- house, 
where,  through  the  grated  windows,  are  still 
exhibited  the  horned  fronts  of  the  oxen  which 
were  roasted  and  given  to  the  people  at  the 
emperor's  coronation,  but  it  was  the  house  of 
a  citizen  painted  green  and  unpretending,  at 
the  corner  of  the  narrow  Jews'  street.  It 
was  the  house  of  the  Rothschilds.  I  looked 
in  at  the  open  door;  the  flight  of  steps  was 
strongly  lighted ;  servants  stood  there  with 
burning  lights  in  massive  silver  candlesticks, 
and  bowed  themselves  lowly  before  the  old 
woman  who  was  carried  forth  down  the  steps 
in  a  sedan  chair.     The  master  of  the  house 


106  A   PICTURE-BOOK 

stood  ^ith  bare  head,  and  impressed  reveren- 
tially a  kiss  upon  the  old  woman's  hand.  It 
was  his  mother.  She  nodded  kindly  to  him, 
and  to  the  servants  ;  and  they  carried  her  out 
into  the  narrow,  dark  street,  into  a  little 
house,  where  she  lived,  and  where  her  child 
was  born,  from  whom  all  her  good  fortune 
had  proceeded.  If  she  were  now  to  leave  the 
despised  street  and  the  little  house,  then,  per- 
haps, good  fortune  would  leave  him  ! — that 
was  her  belief. 

The  Moon  told  nothing  more.  Her  visit 
to  me  was  too  short  this  evening  ;  but  I 
thought  of  the  old  woman  in  the  narrow,  de- 
spised street.  Only  one  word  about  her — 
and  she  had  her  splendid  house  near  the 
Thames ;  only  one  word  about  her — and  her 
villa  was  situated  on  the  Gulf  of  Naples. 

"  Were  I  to  leave  the  mean  little  house 
where  my  son's  good  fortune  began,  then, 
perhaps,  good  fortune  would  leave  him  ! " 

This  is  a  superstition,  but  of  that  kind 
which  only  requires,  when  the  history  is 
known  and  the  picture  seen,  two  words  as 
a  superscription  to  make  it  intelligible — A 
Mother, 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  107 


TWENTY-FIFTH   EVENING. 

It  was  yesterday,  in  the  morning  twilight, 
— these  were  tlie  Moon's  own  words, — not  a 
chimney  was  yet  smoking  in  the  whole  city, 
and  it  was  precisely  the  chimneys  that  I  was 
looking  at.  From  one  of  these  chimneys  at 
that  very  moment  came  forth  a  little  head, 
and  then  a  half  body,  the  arms  of  which 
rested  on  the  coping  stone  of  the  chimney. 
'^  Hurrah  !"  It  was  a  little  chimney-sweeper 
lad,  who,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  had 
mounted  a  chimney,  and  had  thus  put  forth 
his  head.  "  Hurrah  !"  Yes,  there  was  some 
difference  between  this  and  creeping  upwards 
in  the  narrow  chimney !  The  air  blew  so 
fresh ;  he  could  look  out  over  the  whole  city 
lo  the  green  wood.     The  sun  had  just  risen 


108  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

round  and  laige,  it  looked  brightly  into  his 
face,  which  beamed  with  happiness,  although 
it  was  famously  smeared  with  soot. 

••'  Now  the  whole  city  can  see  me,  and  the 
moon  can  see  me,  and  the  sun  also  !"  and 
with  that  he  flourished  about  his  brush. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  109 


TWENTY-SIXTH  EVENING. 

Last  night  I  looked  down  upon  a  city  in 
China, — said  the  Moon.  My  beams  illumin- 
ed the  long  naked  walls  which  form  the 
streets  ;  here  and  there,  to  be  sure,  is  a  door, 
but  it  is  closed,  because  the  Chinese  troubled 
not  themselves  about  the  world  outside. 
Impenetrable  Venetian  shutters  covered  the 
windows  of  the  houses  behind  the  walls ;  • 
from  the  temple  alone  light  shone  faintly 
through  the  window-glass.  I  looked  in — 
looked  in  upon  the  brilliant  splendor ;  from 
floor  to  ceiling  was  covered  with  pictures  in 
strong  colors  and  rich  gilding,  which  rep- 
resented the  w^orks  of  the  gods  on  earth. 
Their  statues  themselves  stood  in  every 
niche,  but  mostly  concealed  by  brilliant  dra- 


ilO  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

peries  and  suspended  fans  ;  and  before  every 
divinity — they  were  all  of  tin — stood  a  little 
altar  with  holy  water,  flowers,  and  burning 
wax-lights.  Supreme  in  the  temple,  however, 
stood  Fu,  the  supreme  divinity,  dressed  in  a 
garment  of  silken  stuff  of  the  holy  yellow 
color.  At  the  foot  of  the  altar  sate  a  living 
figure,  a  young  priest.  He  appeared  to  be 
praying,  but  in  the  midst  of  his  prayer  he 
sunk  into  deep  thought ;  and  it  certainly  was 
sinful,  because  his  cheeks  burned,  and  his 
head  bowed  very  low.  Poor  Souihoung ! 
Perhaps  he  was  dreaming  about  working  in 
one  of  the  little  flower-gardens  which  lie  be- 
fore every  house  behind  the  long  wall  of  the 
street,  and  which  was  a  far  pleasanter  occu- 
pation to  him  than  trimming  the  wax-lights 
in  the  temple  ;  or  was  he  longing  to  be  seated 
at  the  well- covered  board,  and  between  every 
course  to  be  wiping  his  lips  with  silver  paper? 
or  was  i.  a  sin  so  great  that  if  he  had  dared 
to  utter  it,  the  heavenly  powers  must  have 
punished  him  with  death  ?  Were  his  thoughts 
bold  enough  to  take  flight  with  the  ship  of 
the  barbarians  to  their  home,  the  remote 
England  ?     No,  his  thoughts  did  not  fly  so 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  Ill 

far  ;  and  yet  they  were  as  sinful  as  the  warm 
blood  of  youth  could  make  them — sinful  here, 
in  the  temple  before  the  statues  of  Fu  and 
the  holy  deities.  I  knew  where  his  thoughts 
were.  In  the  most  distant  corner  of  the  city, 
upon  the  flat,  flagged  roof,  the  parapet  of 
which  seemed  to  be  made  of  porcelain,  and 
where  stood  the  beautiful  vases  in  which 
grew  large  white  campanulas,  sate  the  youth- 
ful Pe,  with  her  small  roguish  eyes,  her  pout- 
ing lips,  and  her  least  of  all  little  feet.  Her 
shoes  pinched,  but  there  was  a  more  severe 
pinching  at  her  heart;  she  raised  her  delicate, 
blooming  arms,  and  the  satin  rustled.  Be- 
fore her  stood  a  glass  bowl,  in  which  were  four 
gold  fish  :  she  stirred  the  water  very  softly 
with  a  beautifully  painted  and  japaned  stick. 
Oh,  so  slowly  slie  stirred  it  because  she  was 
deep  in  thought !  Perhaps  she  was  thinking 
how  rich  and  golden  was  the  apparel  of  the 
fish,  how  safely  they  lived  in  the  glass  bowl, 
and  how  luxuriously  they  were  fed  ;  and  yet, 
for  all  that,  how  much  more  happy  they 
might  be  in  freedom  :  yes,  the  idea  distressed 
the  beautiful  Pe.  Her  thoughts  passed  away 
from  her  home ;  her  thoughts  went  into  the 


112  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

church,  but  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  the  gods 
that  they  went  there.  Poor  Pe !  poor  Soui- 
houng !  Their  earthly  thoughts  met,  but 
my  cold  beam  lay  like  a  cherub's  sword  be- 
tween them. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  113 


TWENTY-SEVENTH  EVENING. 

There  was  a  calm, — said  the  Moon — the 
water  was  as  transparent  as  the  pure  air 
through  which  I  floated.  I  could  see,  far 
below  the  surface  of  the  sea,  the  strange 
plants  which,  like  giant  trees  in  groves, 
heaved  themselves  up  towards  me  with  stems 
a  fathom  long,  whilst  the  fish  swam  over 
their  tops.  High  up  in  the  air  flew  a  flock 
of  wild  swans,  one  of  which  sank  with 
wearied  wings  lower  and  lower:  its  eyes 
followed  the  airy  caravan,  which  every  mo- 
ment became  more  distant ;  its  pinions  were 
expanded  widely,  and  it  sank,  like  a  soap- 
bubble  in  the  still  air ;  it  touched  the  surface 
of  the  water,  bowed  back  its  head  between 
its  wings,  and  lay  still,  like   a  white  lotus 

k 


114  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

upon  the  calm  Indian  Sea.  The  breeze  blew 
and  Ufted  up  the  bright  surface  of  the  water, 
which  was  brilUant  as  the  air ;  there  rolled 
on  a  large,  broad  billow— the  swan  hfted  its 
head,  and  the  shining  water  was  poured,  like 
blue  fire,  over  its  breast  and  back. 

The  dawn  of  day  illumined  the  red  clouds, 
and  the  swan  rose  up  refreshed,  and  flew 
towards  the  ascending  sun,  towards  the  blue 
coast,  whither  had  betaken  themselves  ihe  airy 
caravan ;  but  it  flew  alone— with  longing  in 
its  breast,  flew  alone  over  the  blue,  the  foam- 
ing water ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  115 


TWENTY-EIGHTH  E7ENING. 

I  will  now  give  thee  a  picture  from  Swe- 
den, said  the  Moon. — In  the  midst  of  black 
pine  woods,  not  far  from  the  melancholy- 
shore  of  Roxe,  lies  the  old  convent-church  of 
Wreta.  My  beams  passed  through  the  grat- 
ing in  the  walls  into  the  spacious  vault  where 
kings  sleep  in  great  stone  coffins.  On  the 
wall  above  them,  is  placed,  as  an  image  of 
earthly  magnificence,  a  king's  crown,  made 
of  wood,  painted  and  gilded,  and  held  firm 
by  a  wooden  pin,  which  is  driven  into  the 
wall.  The  worm  has  eaten  through  the 
gilded  wood,  the  spider  has  spun  its  web  from 
the  crown  to  the  coffin ;  it  is  a  mourning 
banner,  perishable,  as  mourning  for  the  dead  ! 

How  still  they  sleep  !  I  remember  them  so 


116  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

well !  1  see  now  the  bold  smile  on  the  lips 
which  expressed  joy  or  sorrow  so  strongly, 
so  decisively.  When  the  steam-vessel,  like 
an  enchanted  ship,  sails  hither  from  the 
mountains,  many  a  stranger  comes  to  the 
church,  visits  this  vault,  and  inquires  the 
names  of  the  kings,  and  these  names  sound 
forgotten  and  dead  ;  he  looks  upon  the  worm- 
eaten  crown,  smiles,  and  if  he  be  of  a  pious 
turn  of  mind,  there  is  melancholy  in  his 
smile. 

Slumber  ye  dead  !  the  Moon  remembers 
you.  The  Moon  sends  in  the  night  her  cold 
beams  to  your  quiet  kingdom,  over  which 
hangs  the  wooden  crown  ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  117 


TWENTY-NINTH  EVENING. 

Close  beside  the  high  road. — said  the  Moon, 
— hes  a  Uttle  public  house,  and  just  opposite  to 
it  is  a  great  coach  house.  As  the  roof  was 
under  repair,  I  looked  down  between  the 
beams  and  saw  through  the  open  trap-door  into 
the  great  desolate  space ;  the  turkey  slept  up- 
on the  beam,  and  the  saddle  was  laid  to  rest 
in  the  empty  manger.  In  the  middle  of  the 
place  stood  a  travelling-carriage,  within  which 
the  gentlefolks  were  sound  asleep,  whilst  the 
horses  were  feeding,  and  the  driver  stretched 
his  limbs,  although  I  know  very  well  that  he 
slept  soundly  more  than  half  the  way.  The 
door  of  the  fellow's  chamber  stood  open,  and 
the  bed  looked  as  if  he  had  tumbled  neck  and 
heels  into  it ;  the  candle  stood  on   the  floor, 


118  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

and  burned  low  in  the  socket.  The  wind 
blew  cold  through  the  barn ;  and  the  time 
was  nearer  to  daybreak  than  midnight.  Upon 
the  floor  within  the  stall,  slept  a  family  of 
wandering  musicians ;  father  and  mother 
were  dreaming  about  the  burning  drop  in  the 
bottle  ;  the  pale  little  girl,  she  dreamed  about 
the  burning  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  harp  lay 
at  their  head,  and  the  dog  at  their  feet 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  119 


THIRTIETH  EVENING. 

It  was  in  a  little  trading  town — said  the 
Moon — I  saw  it  last  year ;  but  that  is  no- 
thing, for  I  saw  it  so  plainly.  This  evening 
I  read  about  it  in  the  newspaper,  but  it  was 
not  nearly  as  plain  there. 

Down  in  the  parlor  of  the  public-house  sate 
the  master  of  the  bear,  and  ate  his  supper, 
liams,  the  bear,  stood  outside,  tied  to  the  fag- 
got-stake. The  poor  bear !  he  would  not 
have  done  the  least  harm  to  any  soul,  for  all 
his  grim  looks.  Up  in  the  garret  there  lay, 
in  the  bright  light  of  the  Moon,  three  little 
children :  the  eldest  was  six  years  old,  tti 
youngest  not  more  than  two.  "  Clap,  clap  P 
came  something  up  the  stairs  !  What  could  it 
be  ?     The  door  sprang  open — it  was  Bams, 


\20  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

the  great  rough  bear !  He  had  grown  tired 
of  standing  out  there  in  the  yard,  and  he  now- 
found  his  way  up  tlie  steps.  I  saw  the  whole 
thing, — said  the  Moon.  The  children  were 
very  much  frightened  at  the  great  grim-look- 
ing beast,  and  crept  each  one  of  them  into  his 
corner ;  but  he  found  them  all  out,  rubbed 
them  with  his  snout,  but  did  them  no  harm 
at  all !  "  It  is  certainly  a  big  dog !"  thought 
they  ;  and  with  that  they  patted  him.  He 
laid  himself  down  on  the  floor,  and  the  least 
boy  tumbled  upon  him,  and  played  at  hiding 
his  yellow  curly  head  among  his  thick  black 
hair.  The  eldest  boy  now  took  his  drum  and 
made  a  tremendous  noise,  and  the  bear  rose 
up  on  his  hind  legs  and  began  to  dance.  It 
was  charming  !  Each  boy  took  his  weapons  ; 
the  bear  must  have  a  gun,  too,  and  he  held 
It  like  a  regular  soldier.  What  a  glorious 
comrade  they  had  found  !  and  so  they  march- 
ed— "  One,  two  !  one,  two  !" 

Presently  the  door  opened  ;  it  was  the  chil- 
dren's mother.  You  should  have  seen  her  — 
seen  her  speechless  horror ;  her  face  as 
white  as  a  wall,  her  half-opened  mouth,  her 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  121 

Staring  eyes ,-  the  least  of  the  children,  how- 
ever, nodded  so  joyfully,  and  shouted  with  all 
his  might — "  We  are  playing  at  soldiers  ! " 
And  with  that,  up  came  the  bear's  master ! 
1 


8T  ORIE  8 


123 


MY   BOOTS. 

There  is  a  street  in  Rome  which  is  called 
Via  della  Purifizazione  ;  y^i  nobody  can 
say  of  it  that  it  is  purified.  It  goes  up-hill 
and  down-hill ;  cabbage  stalks  and  old  bro- 
ken pots  lie  scattered  about  it ;  the  smoke 
comes  culling  out  of  the  door  of  the  public- 
house/  and  the  lady  who  lives  opposite  to  me 
— yes,  I  cannot  help  it,  but  it  is  true — the  la- 
dy on  the  opposite  side,  she  shakes  her  sheets 
every  morning  out  of  the  window.  In  this 
street  there  generally  live  many  foreigners ; 
this  year,  however,  fear  of  the  fever  and  ma- 
lignant sickness  keeps  most  of  them  in  Na- 
ples and  Florence.  I  lived  quite  alone  in  a 
great  big  house  ;  neither  the  host  nor  hostess 
ever  slept  there  at  night. 
120 


126  MY   BOOTS. 

It  was  a  great,  big,  cold  house,  with  a  little 
wet  garden,  in  which  there  grew  only  one 
row  of  peas,  and  a  half-extinguished  gilly- 
flower; and  yet,  in  the  very  next  garden, 
which  lay  higher,  there  were  hedges  of 
monthly  roses,  and  trees  full  of  yellow  lem- 
ons. These  last,  spite  of  the  incessant  rain, 
looked  vigorous  ;  the  roses,  on  the  contrary, 
looked  as  if  they  had  lain  for  eight  days  in 
the  sea. 

The  evenings  were  so  lonesome  in  the  cold 
large  rooms  ;  the  black  chimney  yawning  be- 
tween the  windows,  and  without  were  rain 
and  mist.  All  the  doors  were  fastened  with 
locks  and  iron  bolts  ;  but  what  good  could 
that  do  ?  The  wind  whistled  in  a  tone  sharp 
enough  to  cut  one  in  two  through  the  cracks 
in  the  doors  ;  the  thin  faggots  kindled  in  the 
chimney,  but  did  not  send  out  their  warmth 
very  far  ;  the  cold  stone  floor,  the  damp  walls 
and  the  lofty  ceiling  seemed  only  suited  to 
the  summer  t-eason. 

If  I  would  make  myself  right  comfortable, 
I  v/as  obliged  t(>  put  on  my  traveling  fur- 
boots,  my  great  coat,  my  cloak,  and  my  fur- 
cap, — yes,  and  then  I  could  do  tolerably  well. 


MY    BOOTS.  127 

To  be  sure,  the  side  next  the  fire  was  half 
roasted ;  but  then,  in  this  world,  people  must 
learn  to  turn  and  twist  themselves  about,  and 
I  turned  myself  like  a  sunflower. 

The  evenings  were  somewhat  long  ;  but 
then  the  teeth  took  it  into  their  heads  to  get 
up  a  nervous  concert,  and  it  was  extraordi- 
nary with  what  alacrity  the  proposal  was  ac- 
cepted. A  downright  Danish  toothache  can- 
not compare  itself  to  an  Italian  one.  Here 
the  pain  played  upon  the  very  fangs  of  the 
teeth,  as  if  there  sate  a  Liszt  or  a  Thall)erg 
at  them ;  now  it  thundered  in  the  fore- 
ground, now  in  the  background.  There 
was  an  accordance  and  strength  in  the  whole 
thing  which  at  last  drove  me  beside  myself. 

Besides  the  evening  concerts,  there  were 
also  nocturnal  concerts  ;  and  during  such  a 
one,  while  the  windows  rattled  in  the  storm, 
and  rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  I  threw  a 
half-melancholy  glance  upon  my  night-lamp. 
My  writing  implements  stood  just  by,  and  I 
saw,  quite  plainly,  that  the  pen  was  dancing 
along  over  the  paper  as  if  it  were  guided  by 
an  invisible  hand  ;  but  it  was  not  so ;  it  was 
guided  by  its  own  hand  ;  it  wrote  from  dicta- 


128  MY   BOOTS. 

tion  ;  and  who  dictated  ?  Yes,  it  may  sound 
incredible,  but  is  the  truth  for  all  that.  And 
when  I  say  so,  people  will  believe  me.  It 
was  my  boots, — my  old  Copenhagen  boots — 
which,  being  soaked  through  and  through 
with  rain-water,  now  had  their  place  in  the 
chimney,  near  to  the  red  glowing  fire.  Whilst 
I  was  suffering  from  toothache,  they  were 
suffering  from  dropsy ;  they  dictated  their 
own  autobiography,  which,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
may  throw  some  light  upon  the  Italian  win- 
ter of  1840-41. 

The  Boots  said, — 

"  We  are  two  brothers.  Right  and  Left  Boot. 
Our  earliest  recollection  is  of  being  strongly 
rubbed  over  with  wax,  and  after  that  highly 
polished.  I  could  see  myself  reflected  in  my 
brother  ;  my  brother  could  see  himself  reflect- 
ed in  me  ;  and  we  saw  that  we  were  only 
one  body, — a  sort  of  Castor  and  Pollux  ;  a 
pair  of  together-grown  Siamese,  which  fate 
has  ordained  to  live  and  die,  to  exist,  and 
not  to  exist,  together.  We  were,  both  of  us, 
native  Copenhageners. 

The  shoemaker's  apprentice  carried  us  out 
into  the  world  in   his  ov/n  hands,   and  this 


MY   BOOTS.  129 

gave  rise  to  sweet,  but  alas !  false  hopes  of 
our  destination.  The  person  to  whom  we 
were  thus  brought,  pulled  us  on  by  the  eais, 
until  we  fitted  to  his  legs,  and  then  he  went 
down  stairs  in  us.  We  creaked  for  joy  ! 
When  we  got  out  of  doors  it  rained — we  kept 
creaking  on,  however  j  but  only  for  the  first 
day. 

"Ah  !  there  is  a  great  deal  of  bad  weather 
to  go  through  in  this  world  !  We  were  not 
made  for  water  boots,  and  therefore  did  not 
feel  happy.  No  brushing  ever  gave  us  again 
the  polish  of  our  youth  ;  the  polish  which 
we  possessed  when  the  shoemaker's  appren- 
tice carried  us  through  the  streets  in  his  hand. 
Who  can  describe  our  joy,  therefore,  when 
we  heard  it  said  one  morning,  that  we  were 
going  into  foreign  parts  !  yes,  were  even  go- 
ing to  Italy,  to  that  mild,  warm  country, 
where  we  shoi.ld  only  tread  upon  marble  and 
classic  ground  ;  drink  in  the  sunshine,  and, 
of  a  certainty,  recover  the  brightness  of  our 
youth. 

"  We  set  out.  Through  the  longest  part 
of  our  journey  we  slept  in  the  trunk,  and 
dreamed  about  the  warm  countries.     In  the 


130  MY    BOOTS. 

cities  or  the  country,  we  made  good  use  of 
our  eyes ;  it  was,  however,  bad  weather,  and 
wet  there  also  as  in  Denmark.  Our  soles 
were  taken  ill  of  palsy,  and  in  Munich  were 
obliged  tc  be  taken  off,  and  we  had  a  new 
pair  ;  but  these  were  so  well  done,  that  they 
looked  like  native  soles. 

"  '  Oh,  that  we  were  but  across  the  Alps  ! ' 
sighed  we;  there  the  weather  is  mild  and 
good.' 

"  We  came  to  the  other  side  of  the  Alps, 
but  we  found  neither  mild  nor  good  weather. 
It  rained  and  blew  ;  and  when  we  trod  upon 
marble,  it  was  so  icy-cold,  that  it  forced  the 
cold  perspiration  out  of  our  soles  ;  wherever 
we  trod  we  left  behind  a  wet  impression. 
In  the  evenings,  however,  it  was  very  amus- 
ing when  the  shoe-boys  at  the  hotels  collected 
and  numbered  the  boots  and  shoes  ;  and  we 
were  set  among  all  these  foreign  companions 
and  heard  them  tell  about  all  the  cities  where 
they  had  been.  There  was  once  a  pair  of 
beautiful  red  morocco  boots,  with  black  feet, 
I  think  it  was  in  Bologna,  that  told  us  all 
about  their  ascending  Vesuvius,  where  their 
feet  were  burned  off  with  the  subterranean 


MY    BOOTS.  131 

heat.  All !  we  could  not  help  longing  to  die 
8uch  a  death. 

"  '  If  we  were  but  across  the  Appenines  ! 
If  we  were  but  in  Rome  !'  sighed  we.  And 
we  came  thither  ;  but  for  one  week  after  an- 
other have  been  tramping  about  in  nothing 
but  wet  and  mud.  People  must  see  every- 
thing ;  and  wonderful  sights  and  rainy 
weather,  never  come  to  an  end.  Not  a  sin- 
gle warm  sunbeam  has  refreshed  us  ;  the 
cold  wind  is  always  whistling  round  us.  Oh 
Rome  !  Rome  !  For  the  first  time  this  night 
do  we  inhale  warmth  in  this  blessed  chimney 
corner,  and  we  will  inhale  it  till  we  burst ! 
The  upper  leathers  are  gone  already, — no- 
thing remains  but  the  hind  quarters,  and  they 
will  soon  give  way.  Before,  however,  we  die 
this  blessed  death,  we  wish  to  leave  our  his- 
tory behind  us ;  and  we  wish  also  that  our 
corpses  should  be  taken  to  Berlin,  to  repose 
near  to  that  man  who  had  the  heart  and  the 
courage  to  describe  '  Italy  as  it  is,' — even  by 
the  truth-loving  Nicolai." 

And  with  these  words  the  boots  crumbled 
to  pieces. 

All   was   still:  my  night-lamp  had   gone 


132  MY    BOOTS. 

out.  I  myself  slumbeied  a  little  ;  and  when 
towards  morning  I  awoke,  I  found  it  was  all 
a  dream ;  but  w4ien  I  glanced  towards  the 
chimney-corner,  I  saw  the  boots  all  shrivelled 
up,  standing  like  mummies  beside  the  cold 
ashes  !  I  looked  at  the  paper  which  lay  near 
to  my  lamp — it  was  grey  paper,  full  of  ink 
spots  —the  pen  unquestionably  had  been  over 
it,  but  the  words  had  all  run  one  into  another  ; 
however  the  pen  had  written  the  Memoirs  of 
the  Boots  on  grey  paper.  That,  however, 
which  was  legible  I  copied  out ;  and  the  peo 
pie  will  be  so  good  as  to  recollect  that  it  is 
not  I,  but  my  boots,  which  make  this  com- 
plaint of  La  bella  Italia. 


SCENES  ON  THE  DANUBE. 


To-day  is  Sunday. 
It  is  Sunday  in  the  calendar ;  it  is  Sunday 
in  God's  beautiful  nature !  Let  us  go  out  into 
the  hills  toward  Mehadia,  the  most  dehght- 
fuUy  situated  of  all  the  watering-places  in 
Hungary.  What  a  mass  of  flowers  are  in 
bloom  in  the  tall  green  grass  !  What  gushes 
of  sunshine  upon  the  wood-covered  sides  of 
the  hills  !  The  air  is  blue  and  transparent. 
To-day  it  is  Sunday,  and  therefore  all  the 
people  whom  we  meet  are  in  holiday  attire. 
The  smooth,  black,  plaited  hair  of  the  girls  is 
adorned  with  real  flowers ;  with  a  spray  of 
laburnum,  or  a  dark  red  carnation  ;  the  white 
chemise  sleeves  are  embroidered  with  green 
and  red  ;  the  petticoat  resembles  a  deep 
fringe  of  red,  blue,  and  yellow :  even  the  old 
133 


134  TO-DAY    IS    SUNDAY. 

grandmother  is  dressed  in  fringe,  and  wears 
a  flower  in  her  white  Unen  head-band. 
Young  men  and  boys  have  roses  in  theit 
hats ;  the  very  least  is  arrayed  in  his  best, 
and  looks  splendid  ;  his  short  shirt  hangs 
outside  his  dark-colored  breeches  ;  a  spray  of 
laburnum  is  wreathed  round  his  large  hat, 
which  soon  half  buries  his  eyes.  Yes,  it  is 
Sunday  to-day ! 

What  a  solitude  there  is  in  these  hills ! 
Life  and  health  gush  in  water  out  of  these 
springs  ;  music  resounds  from  the  stately, 
large  pump-room ;  the  nightingale  sings  in 
the  clear  sunshine,  among  the  fragrant  trees, 
Avhere  the  wild  vines  climb  from  branch  to 
branch. 

Thou  wonderful  nature !  to  me  the  best, 
the  holiest  of  churches  !  In  the  midst  of  thee 
my  heart  tells  me  that  "  this  day  is  Sunday  !" 

We  are  again  in  Orsova.  The  brass  ball 
upon  the  church-tower  shines  in  the  sun : 
the  door  is  open.  How  solitary  it  is  within. 
The  priest  stands  in  his  robes  and  lifts  up  his 
voice  ;  it  is  Father  Adam  ;  little  Antonius 
kneels  before  him,  and  swings  to  and  fro  the 
censer ;  the  elder  boy,  Hieronymus,  has  his 


TO-DAY    IS    SUNDAY.  135 

place  in  the  middle  of  the  church,  and  repre- 
sents the  whole  Armenian  congregation. 

In  front  of  the  church,  in  the  market-place, 
where  the  lime-trees  are  in  blossom,  there  is 
a  great  dance  of  young  and  old.  In  the 
middle  of  the  circle  stand  the  musicians  ;  one 
blows  the  bag-pipe,  the  other  scrapes  the 
fiddle.  The  circle  twists  itself  first  to  the 
right,  then  to  the  left.  Everybody  is  in  their 
utmost  grandeur,  with  fringe,  flowers,  and 
bare  feet.     To-day  it  is  Sunday  ! 

Several  little  lads  run  about  in  nothing  but 
a  shirt ;  upon  their  heads,  however,  they  wear 
a  large  man's  hat,  and  in  the  hat  a  flower. 
Ofiicial  people,  gentlemen  and  ladies  all 
dressed  in  the  fashion  of  Vienna,  walk  about 
to  look  at  the  people,  the  dancing  people. 
The  red  evening  sun  illumines  the  white 
church  tower,  the  amber-colored  Danube,  and 
the  wood-crowned  mountains  of  Servia  :  may 
it  shine  also  in  my  song  when  I  sing  of  it ! 
How  beautiful  and  animated !  How  fresh 
and  peculiar  !  Everything  indicates  a  holiday. 
Everything  shows  that  to-day  is  Sunday ! 


136  at  drencova 

At  Drencova. 

About  sunset  I  walked  alone  in  the  wood 
near  the  Httie  town,  where  I  fell  in  with  some 
gipseys  who  had  encamped  round  a  fire  for 
the  night.  When  I  returned  back  through 
the  Avood,  I  saw  a  handsome  peasant-lad 
standing  among  the  bushes,  who  bade  me 
good  evening  in  German.  I  asked  him  if  this 
were  his  native  tongue  ;  he  replied  in  the 
negative,  and  told  me  that  he  commonly 
spoke  in  the  Wallacian  language,  but  that 
he  had  learned  German  in  the  school.  To 
judge  by  his  dress  he  appeared  very  poor  • 
but  everything  that  he  wore  was  so  clean 
his  hair  so  smoothly  combed  ;  his  eyes  beam* 
ed  with  such  an  expression  of  happmess ; 
there  was  something  so  thoughtful  and  so 
good  in  his  countenance,  as  I  rarely  have 
seen  in  a  child  before.  I  asked  him  if  he 
were  intended  for  a  soldier,  and  he  replied, 
"  Yes,  we  are  all  of  us  soldiers  here ,  but  I 
wish  to  be  an  officer,  and  therefore  I  learn 
everything  that  I  can."  There  was  a  some- 
thing in  his  whole  manner  so  innocent,  so 
noble,   that  actually,  if  I  had  been  rich,  I 


AT    DRENCOVA.  137 

would  have  adopted  that  boy.  I  told  him 
that  he  certainly  must  be  an  officer ;  and  that 
no  doubt  he  would  be  one  if  he  only  zealously 
strove  after  it,  and  put  his  trust  in  God. 

In  reply  to  my  question,  whether  he  knew 
where  Denmark  was,  he  thought  with  him- 
self for  some  time,  and  then  said,  "  I  fancy  it 
is  a  long  way  from  here — near  Hamburgh." 

I  could  not  give  an  alms  to  this  boy ;  he 
seemed  too  noble  to  receive  charity ;  I  asked 
him,  therefore,  to  gather  me  a  few  flowers ; 
he  ran  aAvay  readily,  and  soon  gathered  me 
a  beautiful  nosegay.  I  took  and  said  I  shall 
buy  these  flowers.  In  that  way  he  received 
payment ;  he  blushed  deeply,  and  thanked 
me  sweetly.  He  told  me  that  his  name  was 
Adam  Marco.  I  took  one  of  my  cards  out  of 
my  pocket,  and  gave  it  to  him,  saying, 
"  Some  day  when  you  are  an  officer,  and  per- 
haps may  come  to  Denmark,  then  inquire 
for  me,  and  your  happiness  will  give  me  great 
pleasure.  Be  industrious,  and  put  your  trust 
in  God !  There  is  no  knowing  what  may 
happen." 

Nevej*  did  any  unknown  child  make  sucn 
a  strong  impression  on  me  at  the  first  meet 

m 


138  AT    DRENCOVA. 

ing,  as  did  this.  His  noble  deportment,  his 
thoughtful  innocent  countenance,  were  his 
best  patent  of  nobility.  He  must  become  an 
officer ;  and  I  will  do  my  little  towards  it ; 
committing  it,  it  is  true,  to  the  hand  of 
chance.  And  here  I  make  my  bow  to  every 
noble,  rich,  Hungarian  lady,  who,  by  any 
chance,  may  read  this  book,  and  who,  per- 
haps, for  the  "  Improvisatore "  and  "  The 
Fiddler,"  may  have  a  kindly  thought;  the 
poet  beseeches  of  her — or  if  he  have,  unknown 
to  himself,  a  wealthy  friend  in  Hungary,  or 
in  Wallacia,  he  beseeches  also  of  him,  to 
think  of  Adam  Marco  in  Drencova,  and  to 
help  your  little  countryman  forward,  if  he 
deserve  it ! 


The  Swineherds. 

Before  a  cottage,  plastered  of  mud  and 
straw,  sat  an  old  swineherd,  a  real  Hungarian, 
and  consequently  a  nobleman.*     Very  often 

*  The  number  of  indigent  nobles  in  Hungary  is  very 
great  and  tney  live  like  peasants,  in  the  most  miserable 
huts. 


THE    SWINEHERDS.  139 

had  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
Baid  this  to  himself.  The  sun  burnt  hotly, 
and  therefore  he  had  turned  the  woolly  side 
of  his  sheepskin  outwards ;  his  silver  white 
hair  hung  around  his  characteristic  brown 
countenance.  He  had  got  a  new  piece  of 
linen,  a  shirt,  and  he  was  now  preparing  it  for 
wear,  according  to  his  own  fashion,  which 
was  this :  he  rubbed  the  fat  of  a  piece  of 
bacon  into  it ;  by  this  means  it  would  keep 
clean  so  much  the  longer,  and  he  could  turn 
it  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other. 

His  grandson,  a  healthy-looking  lad,  whose 
long  black  hair  was  smoothed  with  the  same 
kind  of  pomatum  which  the  old  man  used  to 
his  shirt,  stood  just  by,  leaning  on  a  staff.  A 
long  leathern  bag  hung  on  his  shoulder.  He 
also  was  a  swineherd,  and  this  very  evening 
was  going  on  board  a  vessel,  which,  towed 
by  the  steamboat  Eros,  was  taking  a  freight 
of  pigs  to  the  imperial  city  of  Vienna. 

"  You  will  be  there  in  five  days,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  When  I  was  a  young  fellow,  hke 
you,  it  used  to  take  six  weeks  for  the  journey. 
Step  by  step  we  went  on  through  marshy 
roads,  through  forests,  and  over  rooks.     The 


140  THE    SWINEHERDS. 

pigs,  which  at  the  beginning  of  the  journey, 
were  so  fat  that  many  of  them  died  by  the 
way,  became  thin  and  wretched    before  we* 
came  to  our   destination.      Now,  the  world 
strides  onward  :  everything  gets  easier  !" 

"  We  can  smoke  our  pipes,"  said  the  youth  ; 
"he  in  the  sun  in  our  warm  skin-cloaks. 
Meadows  and  cities  glide  swiftly  past  us  ;  the 
pigs  fly  along  with  us,  and  get  fat  on  the 
journey.     That  is  the  life  !'' 

"  Everybody  has  his  own  notions,"  replied 
the  old  man  ;  "  I  had  mine.  There  is  a 
pleasure  even  in  difficulty.  When  in  the 
forest  I  saw  the  gypsies  roasting  and  boiling, 
I  had  to  look  sharply  about  me,  to  mind  that 
my  best  pigs  did  not  get  into  their  clutches. 
Many  a  bit  of  fun  have  I  had.  I  had  to  use 
my  wits.  I  was  put  to  my  shifts  ;  and  some- 
times had  to  use  my  fists  as  well.  On  the 
plain  between  the  rocks,  where,  you  know, 
the  winds  are  shut  in,  I  drove  my  herd :  I 
drove  it  across  the  field  where  the  invisible 
castle  of  the  winds  is  built.  There  was 
neither  house  nor  roof  to  be  seen :  "he  castle 
of  the  winds  can  only  be  felt.  1  drove  the 
herd  through  the  invisible  chambers  cind  halls. 


THE    SWINEHERDS.  141 

I  could  see  it  very  well ;  the  wall  was  storai 
the  door  whirlwind !  Such  a  thing  as  that 
is  worth  all  the  trouble ;  it  gives  a  man 
something  to  talk  about.  What  do  you  come 
to  know,  you  who  lie  idling  in  the  sunshine, 
in  the  great  floating  pig-sty  ?" 

And  all  the  time  the  old  man  was  talking, 
he  kept  rubbing  the  bacon-fat  into  his  new 
shirt. 

"Go  with  me  to  the  Danube,"  returned 
the  youth ;  "  there  you  will  see  a  dance  of 
pigs,  all  so  fat,  till  they  are  ready  to  burst. 
They  do  not  like  to  go  into  the  vessel ;  we 
drive  them  with  sticks ;  they  push  one 
against  another ;  set  themselves  across ; 
stretch  themselves  out  on  the  earth,  run 
hither  and  thither,  however  fat  and  heavy 
they  may  be.  That  is  a  dance  !  You  would 
shake  your  sides  with  laughing  !  What  a 
squealing  there  is !  All  the  musicians  in 
Hungary  could  not  make  such  a  squealing 
as  that  out  of  all  their  bagpipes,  let  them 
blow  as  hard  as  they  would !  How  beauti- 
fully bright  you  have  made  your  shirt  look  • 
you  can't  improve  it.  Go  with  me — now  do 
—to  the  Danube !     I'll  give  you  something" 


142  THE    SWINEHERDS. 

to  drink,  grandfather  !  In  four  days  I  snail 
be  in  the  capital:  what  pomp  and  splendor 
I  shall  see  there  I  I  will  buy  you  a  pair  of 
red  trowsers  and  plaited  spurs  1" 

The  old  swineherd  proudly  lifted  his  head  , 
regarded  the  youthful  Magyar  with  flashing 
eyes  ;  hung  his  shirt  on  the  hook  in  the  wall 
of  the  low  mud  cottage,  in  which  there  was 
nothing  but  a  table,  a  bench,  and  a  wooden 
chest ;  he  nodded  with  his  head,  and  mutter- 
ed to  himself.  "  Nemes-ember  van,  nemes- 
ember  en  es  vagyok.*'  (He  is  a  nobleman : 
I  am  also  a  nobleman  !> 


THE  REAL  PRINCESS. 

There  was  once  a  Prince  who  wished  to 
many  a  Princess ;  but  then  she  must  be  a 
real  Princess.  He  travelled  all  over  the  world 
in  hopes  of  finding  such  a  lady  ;  but  there 
was  always  something  wrong.  Princesses 
he  found  in  plenty;  but  whether  they  were 
real  Princesses  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
decide,  for  now  one  thing,  now  another,  seem- 
ed to  him  not  quite  right  about  the  ladies. 
At  last  he  returned  to  his  palace  quite  cast 
down,  because  he  wished  so  much  to  have  a 
real  Princess  for  his  wife. 

One  evening  a  fearful  tempest  arose,  it 
thundered  and  lightened,  and  the  rain  poured 
down  from  the  sky  in  torrents :  besides,  it 
was  as  dark  as  pitch.  All  at  once  there  was 
heard  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door,  and  the 
143 


144  THE    REAL    PRINCESS. 

old  King,  the  Prince's  father,  went  out  him- 
self to  open  it. 

It  was  a  Princess  who  was  standing  outside 
the  door.  AVhat  with  the  rain  and  the  wind, 
she  was  in  a  sad  condition  ;  the  water  trickled 
down  from  her  hair,  and  her  clothes  clung  to 
her  body.     She  said  she  was  a  real  Princess. 

"  Ah !  we  shall  soon  see  that !"  thought 
the  old  Q,ueen-mother  ;  however,  she  said  not 
a  word  of  what  she  was  going  to  do;  but 
went  quietly  into  the  bed-room,  took  all  the 
bed-clothes  off  the  bed,  and  put  three  little 
peas  on  the  bedstead.  She  then  laid  twenty 
mattrasses  one  upon  another  over  the  three 
peas,  and  put  twenty  feather  beds  over  the 
mattrasses. 

Upon  this  bed  the  Princess  was  to  pass  the 
night. 

The  next  morning  she  was  asked  how  she 
had  slept.  "  Oh,  very  badly  indeed  !"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  have  scarcely  closed  my  eyes  the 
whole  night  through.  I  do  not  know  what 
was  in  my  bed,  but  I  had  something  hard 
under  me,  and  am  all  over  black  and  blue. 
It  has  hurt  me  so  much  !" 

Now  it  was  plain  that  the  lady  must  be  a 


THE    REAL    PRINCESS.  145 

real  Princess,  since  she  had  been  able  to  feel 
the  three  little  peas  through  the  twenty  mat- 
trasses  and  twenty  feather  beds.  None  but  a 
real  Princess  could  have  had  such  a  delicate 
sense  of  feeling. 

The  Prince  accordingly  made  her  his  wife  ; 
being  now  convinced  that  he  had  found  a  real 
Princess.  The  three  peas  were  however  put 
into  the  cabinet  of  curiosities,  where  they  are 
still  to  be  seen,  provided  they  are  not  lost. 

Wa-s  aot  this  lady  a.  real  delicacy. 


THE  SWINEHERD. 

There  was  once  a  poor  Prince,  who  had 
a  kingdom ;  his  kingdom  was  very  small,  but 
still  quite  large  enough  to  marry  upon ;  and 
he  wished  to  marry. 

It  was  certainly  rather  cool  of  him  to  say 
to  the  Emperor's  daughter,  Will  you  have 
me  ?  But  so  he  did ;  for  his  name  was  re- 
nowned far  and  wide  ;  and  there  were  a  hun- 
dred princesses  who  would  have  answered, 
"Yes  !"  and  "  Thank  you  kindly."  We  shall 
see  what  this  princess  said. 

Listen  ! 

It  happened  that  where  the  Prince's  fainer 
lay  buried,  there  grew  a  rose  tlee — a  most 
beautiful  rose  tree,  which  blossomed  only  once 
in  every  five  years,  and  even  then  bore  only 
one  flower,  but  that  was  a  rose  !  It  smelt  sc 
146 


THE    SWINEHERD.  147 

sweet  to  at  all  cares  and  sorrows  were  forgotten 
by  him  who  inhaled  its  fragrance.  '.'/7   ''     y^ 

And  furthermore,  the  Prince  had  a  night- 
ingale, who  could  sing  in  such  a  manner  that 
it  seemed  as  though  all  sweet  melodies  dwelt 
in  her  Uttle  throat.  So  the  Princess  was  to 
have  the  rose,  and  the  nightingale  ;  and  they 
were  accordingly  put  into  lar^  silver  cask- 
ets, and  sent  to  her. 

The  Emperor  had  them  brought  into  a 
large  hall,  where  the  Princess  was  playing  at 
"  Visiting,"  with  the  ladies  of  the  court ;  and 
when  she  saw  the  caskets  with  the  presents, 
she  clapped  her  hands  for  joy. 

"  Ah,  if  it  were  but  a  little  pussy-cat !"  said 
she ;  but  the  rose  tree,  with  its  beautiful  rose 
came  to  view. 

"  Oh,  how  prettily  it  is  made  ! "  said  all  the 
court  ladies. 

"  It  is  more  than  pretty,"  said  the  Emperor, 
"  it  is  charming  !" 

But  the  Princess  touched  it,  and  was  al- 
most ready  to  cry. 

"  Fie,  papa  !"  said  she,  "  it  is  not  made  at 
all,  it  is  natural !" 

"  Let  us  see  what  is  in  the  other  casket, 


148  THE    SWINEHERD. 

before  we  get  into  a  bad  humor,"  said  the 
Emperor.  So  the  nightingale  came  forth 
and  sang  so  dehghtfully  that  at  first  no  one 
could  say  anything  ill-humored  of  her. 

'■^  Superb e !  charmant  P  exclaimed  the 
ladies  ;  for  they  all  used  to  chatter  French, 
each  one  worse  than  her  neighbor. 

"How  much  the  bird  reminds  me  of  the 
musical  box  that  belonged  to  our  blessed 
Empress,"  said  an  old  knight.  "  Oh  yes  ! 
these  are  the  same  tones,  the  same  execu- 
tion." 

"Yes!  yes!"  said  the  Emperor,  and  he 
wept  like  a  child  at  the  remembrance. 

"  I  will  still  hope  that  it  is  not  a  real  bird," 
said  the  Princess. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  real  bird,"  said  those  who  had 
brought  it.  "  Well  then  let  the  bird  fly,"  said 
the  Princess  ;  and  she  positively  refused  to 
see  the  Prince. 

However,  he  was  not  to  be  discouraged ; 
he  daubed  his  face  over  brown  and  black ; 
pulled  his  cap  over  his  ears,  and  knocked  at 
the  door. 

"  Good  day  to  my  lord,  the  Emperor  P'  said 
he.  "  Can  I  have  employment  at  the  palace  Y 


'tJyJ'^i^J^,.    J^hfiMJiM 


T- 


THE    SWINEHERD.  149 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  Emperor,  "  I  want 
Bome  one  to  take  care  of  the  pigs,  for  we  have 
a  great  many  of  them." 

So  the  Prince  was  appointed  "  Imperial 
Swineherd."  He  had  a  dirty  Uttle  room  close 
by  the  pig-sty ;  and  there  he  sat  the  whole 
day,  and  worked.  By  the  evening  he  had 
made  a  pretty  little  kitchen-pot.  Little  bells 
were  hung  all  round  it ;  and  when  the  pot 
was  boiling,  these  bells  tinkled  in  the  most 
charming  manner,  and  played  the  old  melody, 

"  Acb  !  du  lieber  Augustin, 
Allest  iat  weg,  weg,  weg  I"* 

But  what  was  still  more  curious,  whoever 
held  his  finger  in  the  smoke  of  the  kitchen- 
pot,  immediately  smelt  all  the  dishes  that 
were  cooking  on  every  hearth  in  the  city— 
this,  you  see,  was  something  quite  different 
from  the  rose. 

Now  the  Princess  happened  to  walk  that 
way ;  and  when  she  heard  the  tune,  she 
stood  quite  still,  and  seemed  pleased ;  for 
she  could  play  "  Lieber  Augustine ;"  it  was 

*  "  Ah  !  dear  Augustine  ! 
All  is  gone,  gone,  gone  ]" 


150  THE    SWINEHERD. 

the  only  piece  she  knew  ;  and  she  played  it 
with  one  finger. 

"  Why  there  is  my  piece,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess :  "  that  swineherd  must  certainly  have 
been  well  educated !  go  in  and  ask  him  the 
price  of  the  instrument." 

So  one  of  the  couit  ladies  must  run  in  ; 
however,  she  drew  on  wooden  slippers  first. 

"  What  will  you  take  for  the  kitchen-pot  V^ 
said  the  lady. 

"  I  will  have  ten  kisses  from  the  Pnncess," 
said  the  swineherd. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !"  said  the  lady. 

"I  cannot  sell  it  for  less,"  rejoined  the 
swineherd. 

"  He  is  an  impudent  fellow  !"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, and  she  walked  on  ;  but  when  she  had 
gone  a  little  way,  the  bells  tinkled  so  prettily 

"Ach!  du  lieber  Augustin, 
1  Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg  !" 

"  Stay,"  said  the  Princess.  "  Ask  him  if 
he  Avill  have  ten  kisses  from  the  ladies  of  my 
court." 

"  No,  thank  you !"  said  the  swineherd, 
"  ten  kisses  from  the  Princess,  or  I  keep  the 
the  kitchen-pot  myself." 


THE    SWINEHERD.  151 

"  That  must  not  be,  either  !"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, "  but  do  you  all  stand  before  me  that  no 
one  may  see  us." 

And  the  court-ladies  placed  themselves  in 
front  of  her,  and  spread  out  their  dresses — 
the  swineherd  got  ten  kisses,  and  the  Princess 
— the  kitchen-pot. 

That  was  delightful !  the  pot  was  boiling 
the  whole  evening,  and  the  whole  of  the  fol- 
lowing day.  They  knew  perfectly  well  what 
was  cooking  at  every  fire  throughout  the  city, 
from  the  chamberlain's  to  the  cobbler's  ;  the 
court-ladies  danced  and  clapped  their  hands. 

"  We  know  who  has  soup,  and  who  has 
pancakes  for  dinner  to-day,  who  has  cutlets, 
and  who  has  esfors.     How  interestinsr !" 

"  Yes,  but  keep  my  secret,  for  I  am  an  Em- 
peror's daughter." 

The  swineherd — that  is  to  say — the  Prince, 
for  no  one  knew  that  he  was  other  than  an 
ill-favored  swineherd,  let  not  a  day  pass  with- 
out working  at  something ;  he  at  last  con- 
structed a  rattle,  which,  when  it  was  swung 
round,  played  all  the  waltzes  and  jig  tunea 
which  have  ever  ])een  heard  since  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world. 


152 


THE    SWINEHERD. 


"  Ah,  that  is  superhe  /"  said  the  Princess 
when  she  passed  by,  "  I  have  never  heard 
prettier  compositions  !  Go  in  and  ask  him 
the  price  of  the  ijastrument ;  but  mind,  he 
shall  have  no  more  kisses  !" 

•'  He  will  have  a  hundred  kisses  from  the 
Princess  !"  said  the  lady  who  had  been  to  ask. 

"  I  think  he  is  not  in  his  right  senses !" 
said  the  Princess,  and  walked  on,  but  when 
she  had  gone  a  little  way,  she  stopped  again. 
'•  One  must  encourage  art,"  said  she,  "  I  am 
the  Emperor's  daughter.  Tell  him  he  shall, 
as  on  yesterday,  have  ten  kisses  from  me,  and 
may  take  the  rest  from  the  ladies  of  the 
court." 

'•  Oh  !— but  we  should  not  hke  that  at  all !" 
said  they.  "  What  are  you  muttering  ?"  asked 
the  Princess;  "if  I  can  kiss  him,  surely  you 
can.  Remember  that  you  owe  everything 
to  me."  So  the  ladies  were  obliged  to  go  to 
him  again. 

"  A  hundred  kisses  from  the  Princess  !"  said 
he,  "  or  else  let  every  one  keep  his  own." 

"  Stand  round  !"  said  she  ;  and  all  the  la- 
dies stood  round  her  whilst  the  kissing  was 
going  on. 


THE    SWINEHERD.'  153 

"  What  can  be  the  reason  for  such  a  crowd 
close  by  the  pig-sty  ?"  said  the  Emperor,  who 
happened  just  then  to  step  out  on  the  balco- 
ny ;  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  put  on  his  spec 
tacles.  "  They  are  the  ladies  of  the  court ;  1 
must  go  down  and  see  what  they  are  about !" 
So  he  pulled  up  his  slippers  at  the  heel,  for 
he  had  trodden  them  down. 

As  soon  as  he  had  got  into  the  court-yard, 
he  moved  very  softly,  and  the  ladies  were  so 
much  engrossed  with  counting  the  kisses, 
that  all  might  go  on  fairly,  that  they  did  not 
perceive  the  Emperor.  He  rose  on  his  tip- 
toes. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?"  said  he,  when  he  saw 
what  was  going  on,  and  he  boxed  the  Prin- 
cess's ears  with  his  slipper,  just  as  the  swine- 
herd was  taking  the  eighty-sixth  kiss. 

"  March    out !"    said    the   Emperor,  for  he 

was   very    angry ;    and    both  Princess    and 

swineherd  were  thrust  out  of  the  city. 

/    The  Princess   now   stood    and  wept,  the 

I  swineherd  scolded,  and  the  rain  poured  down. 

"  Alas  !  unhappy  creature  that  I  am  !"  said 
the  Princess       "  If  I  had  but  married   the 


154  THE    SWINEHERD. 

handsome  young  Prince  !  ah  !  how  unfortu- 
nate I  am  !" 

And  the  sAvineherd  went  behmd  a  tree, 
washed  the  black  and  brown  color  from  his 
face,  threw  off  his  dirty  clothes,  and  stepped 
forth  in  his  princely  robes ;  he  looked  so  no- 
ble that  the  Princess  could  not  help  bowing 
before  him. 

"I  am  come  to  despise  thee,"  said  he. 
"Thou  would'st  not  have  an  honorable 
Prince  !  thou  could'st  not  prize  the  rose  and 
the  nightingale,  but  thou  wast  ready  to  kiss 
the  swineherd  for  the  sake  of  a  trumpery 
plaything.     Thou  art  rightly  served." 

He  then  went  back  to  his  own  little  king- 
dom, and  shut  the  door  of  his  palace  in  hef 
face.     Now  she  might  well  sing 

"  Ach  !  du  lieber  Augustine, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg!** 


Dart   X&, 
THE   SHOES    OF   FORTUNE 

THE   SNOW-QUEEN, 

ETC 


THE  SHOES  OF  FORTUNE. 


[li  A  BEGINNING. 

VERY  authoi 
has  some  peculiarity  in  his  descriptions  or  in 
his  style  of  writing.  Those  who  do  not 
like  him,  magnify  it,  shrug  up  their  shoul- 
ders, and  exclaim — There  he  is  again  ! — I, 
for  my  part,  know  very  well  how  I  can 
bring  about  this  movement  and  this  excla- 
mation. It  would  happen  immediately  if  1 
7 


8  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

were  to  begin  here,  as  I  intended  to  do, 
with :  "  Rome  has  its  Corso,  Naples  itg 
Toledo  " — "  Ah  !  that  Andersen  ;  there  he  is 
again !"  they  would  cry ;  yet  I  must,  to 
please  my  fancy,  continue  quite  quietly,  and 
add  :  ''  But  Copenhagen  has  its  East  Street." 

Here,  then,  we  will  stay  for  the  present. 
In  one  of  the  houses  not  far  from  the  new 
market  a  party  was  invited — a  very  large 
party,  in  order,  as  is  often  the  case,  to  get  a 
return  invitation  from  the  others.  One 
half  of  the  company  was  already  seated  at 
the  card-table,  the  other  half  awaited  the 
result  of  the  stereotype  preliminary  obser- 
vation of  the  lady  of  the  house  : 

"  Now  let  us  see  what  we  can  do  to 
amuse  ourselves." 

They  had  got  just  so  far,  and  the  conver 
sation  began  to  crystallise,  as  it  could  but  do 
with  the  scanty  stream  which  the  common- 
place world  supplied.  Amongst  other  things 
they  spoke  of  the  middle  ages :  some  praised 
that  period  as  far  more  interesting,  far  more 
poetical  than  our  own  too  sober  present ; 
indeed  Councillor  Knap  defended  this  opinion 
so  warmly,  that  the  hostess  declared  imme- 


A    BEGINNING.  9 

diately  on  his  side,  and  both  exerted  them- 
Belves  with  unwearied  eloquence.  The 
Councillor  boldly  declared  the  time  of  King 
Hans  to  be  the  noblest  and  the  most  happy 
period.* 

While  the  conversation  turned  on  this 
subject,  and  was  only  for  a  moment  inter- 
rupted by  the  arrival  of  a  journal  that  con- 
tained nothing  worth  reading,  we  will  just 
step  out  into  the  antechamber,  where  cloaks, 
mackintoshes,  sticks^  umbrellas,  and  shoes, 
were  deposited.  Here  sat  two  female  figures, 
a  young  and  an  old  one.  One  might  have 
thought  at  first  they  were  servants  come  to 
accompany  their  mistresses  home  ;  but  on 
looking  nearer,  one  soon  saw  they  could 
scarcely  be  mere  servants  ;  their  forms  were 
too  noble  for  that,  their  skin  too  fine,  the 
cut  of  their  dress  too  striking.  Two  fairies 
were  they ;  the  younger,  it  is  true,  was  not 
Dame  Fortune  herself,  but  one  of  the 
waiting-maids  of  her  handmaidens  who 
carry  about  the  lesser  good  things  that  she 
distributes ;  the  other  looked  extremely 
gloomy — it  was  Care.     She  always  attends 

*  A.D.  1482—1513. 


10  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

to  her  own  serious  business  herself,  as  then 
she  is  sure  of  having  it  done  properly. 

They  were  telling  each  otherj^  witha 
confidential  interchange  of  ideasyjadaere  ihey 
had  been  during  the  day.  The  messenger 
of  Fortune  had  only  executed  a  few  unim- 
portant commissions,  such  as  saving  a  new 
bonnet  from  a  shower  of  rain,  &c.  (fee. ;  but 
what  she  had  yet  to  perform  Avas  something 
quite  unusual. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  said  she,  "  that  to-day 
is  my  birth-day  ;  and  in  honor  of  it,  a  pair 
of  walking-shoes  or  galoshes  has  been  en- 
trusted to  me,  which  I  am  to  carry  to  man- 
kind.  These  shoes  possess^the  property  of 
i  instantly  transporting  him  who  has  them  on_ 
to  the  place  or  the  period  in_  :i3LtujclLhe_iTiost 
wishes  to  be  ;  every  wish,  as  regards  time  or 
}^\  place,  or  state  of  being,  will  be  iumaexiiately 
fulfilled,  and  so  at  last  man  will  be  ham)y, 
here  below." 

"Do  you  seriously  beheve  it?"  replied 
Care,  in  a  severe  tone  of  reproach.  "  No  ; 
he  will  be  very  unhappy,  and  will  assuredly 
bless  the  moment  when  he  feels  that  he  hasf 
freed  himself  from  the  fatal  shoes." 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE    COUNCILLOR.         11 

"  Stupid  nonsense  !"  said  the  other  angri' 
ly.  "I  will  put  them  here  J) J  the  door. 
Some  one  will  make  a  mistake  for  certain 
and  take_the  wrong-  ones — he  will  be  a 
happy  man." 

Such  was  their  conversation. 

7n.0in^-ru^  yi^^T^'^f^'   ^f-f^^-^ 

WHAT    BEFF^     THE    COUNCILLOR. 

IT  was  late  ;  Covmcillor  Knap,  deeply 
occupied  with  the  times  of  King  Hans, 
intended  to  go  home,  and  malicious  Fate 
managed  matters  so  that  his  feet,  instead  of 
finding  their  way  to  his  own  galoshes, 
slipped  into  those  of  Fortune.  Thus  ca- 
parisoned the  good  man  -walked  out  of  the 
w^ell-lighted  rooms  into  East  Street.  By  the 
J^^L^ic  J)Q3yer  of_jJie  shoes  he  was  carried 
back  to  the  times  of  King  Hans  ;  on  which 
account  his  foot  very  naturally  sank  in  the 
tnud  and  puddles  of  the  street,  there  having 


12  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

been  in  those  days  no  pavement  in  Copen 
hagen. 

"  Well  !  this  is  too  bad  !  How  dirty  it  is 
here !"  sighed  the  Councillor.  "  As  to  a 
pavement,  I  can  find  no  traces  of  one,  and 
all  the  lamps,  it  seems,  have  gone  to  sleep." 

The  moon  was  not  yet  very  high ;  it  was 
besides  rather  foggy,  so  that  in  the  darkness 
all  objects  seemed  mingled  in  chaotic  con- 
fusion. At  the  next  corner  hung  a  votive 
lamp  before  a  Madonna,  but  the  light  it  gave 
was  little  better  than  none  at  all ;  indeed, 
he  did  not  observe  it  before  he  was  exactly 
under  it,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  bright 
colors  of  the  pictures  which  represented  the 
well-known  group  of  the  Virgin  and  the  in- 
fant Jesus. 

"That  is  probably  a  wax-work  show," 
thought  he  ;  "  and  the  people  delay  taking 
down  their  sign  in  hopes  of  a  late  visitor  or 
two." 

A  few  persons  in  the  costume  of  the  time 
of  King  Hans  passed  quickly  by  him. 

"  How  strange  they  look !  The  good 
folks  come  probably  from  a  masquerade  !" 

Suddenly  was  heard  the  sound  of  drums 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE    COUNCILLOR.        13 

and  fifes ;  the  bright  blaze  of  a  fire  shot  up 
from  time  to  time,  and  its  ruddy  gleams 
seemed  to  contend  with  the  bluish  light  ol 
the  torches.  The  Councillor  stood  still,  and 
watched  a  most  strange  procession  pass  by. 
First  came  a  dozen  drummers,  who  under- 
stood pretty  well  how  to  handle  their  instru- 
ments ;  then  came  halberdiers,  and  some 
armed  with  cross-bows.  The  principal  per- 
son in  the  procession  was  a  priest.  Aston- 
ished at  what  he  saw,  the  Councillor  asked 
what  was  the  meaning  of  all  this  mummery, 
and  who  that  man  was. 

"  That's  the  Bishop  of  Zealand,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  what  has  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  Bishop  ?"  sighed  the  Councillor, 
shaking  his  head.  It  certainly  could  not  be 
the  Bishop;  even  though  he  was  considered 
the  most  absent  man  in  the  whole  kingdom, 
and  people  told  the  drollest  anecdotes  about 
him.  Reflecting  on  the  matter,  and  without 
.looking  right  or  left,  the  Councillor  went 
through  East  Street  and  across  the  Hiibio 
Platz.  The  bridge  leading  to  Palace  Square 
was  not  to  be  found  ;  scarcely  trusting  his 


14  TliE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

senses,  the  nocturnal  wanderer  discovered  a 
shallow  piece  of  water,  and  here  fell  in  with 
two  men  who  very  comfortably  were  rocking* 
to  and  fro  in  a  boat. 

"  Does  your  honor  want  to  cross  the  ferry 
to  the  Holme?"  asked  they. 

"  Across  to  the  Holme  !"  said  the  Coun- 
cillor, who  knew  nothing  of  the  age  in 
which  he  at  that  moment  was;  "no,Iam 
going  to  Christianshafen,  to  little  Market 
Street/' 

Both  men  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Only  just  tell  me  whera  the  bridge  is," 
said  he.  "It  is  really  unpardonable  that 
there  are  no  lamps  here ;  and  it  is  as  dirty 
as  if  one  had  to  wade  through  a  morass." 

The  longer  he  spoke  with  the  boatmen, 
the  more  unintelligible  did  their  language 
become  to  him. 

"  I  don't  understand  your  Bornholmish 
dialect,"  said  he  at  last,  angrily,  and  turning 
his  back  upon  them.  He  was  unable  to  find 
tlie  bridge  :  there  was  no  railway  either.  "  It 
is  really  disgraceful  what  a  state  this  place 
is  in,"  muttered  he  to  himself.  Never  had 
his    age,    with    which,    however,    he    was 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE     I^OUNCILLOR.        15 

always  grumbling,  seemed  so  miserable  as 
on  this  evening.  "  I'll  take  a  hackney- 
coach  !"  thought  he.  But  where  were  the 
hackney-coaches  ?     Not  one  was  to  be  seen. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  the  New  Market ; 
there,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  I  shall  find  some 
coaches  ;  for  if  I  don't,  I  shall  never  get 
safe  to  Christianshafen." 

So  off  he  went  in  the  direction  of  East 
Street,  and  had  nearly  got  to  the  end  of  it 
when  the  moon  shone  forth. 

<'  God  bless  me  !  What  wooden  scaffold- 
ing is  that  which  they  have  set  up  there?" 
cried  he  involuntarily,  as  he  looked  at  East 
Gate,  which,  in  those  days,  was  at  the  end 
of  East  Street. 

He  found,  however,  a  little  side-door  open, 
and  through  this  he  went,  and  stepped  into 
our  New  Market  of  the  present  time.  It 
was  a  huge  desolate  plain ;  some  wild 
bushes  stood  up  here  and  there,  while  across 
the  field  flowed  a  broad  canal  or  river.  Some 
wretched  hovels  for  the  Dutch  sailors,  re- 
sembling great  boxes,  and  after  which  the 
place  was  named,  lay  about  in  confused  dis- 
order on  the  opposite  bank. 


16  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

"I  either  behold  3.  fata  morgana^  or  T  am 
regularly  tipsy,"  whimpered  out  the  Coun- 
cillor.    But  what's  this  V 

He  turned  round  anew,  firmly  convinced 
that  he  was  seriously  ill.  He  gazed  at  the 
street  formerly  so  well  known  to  him,  and 
now  so  strange  in  appearance,  and  looked  at 
the  houses  more  attentively :  most  of  them 
were  of  wood,  slightly  put  together  ;  and 
many  Imd  a  thatched  roof. 

"No — I  am  far  from  well,"  sighed  he; 
"  and  yet  I  drank  only  one  glass  of  punch  ; 

but   I   cannot   suppose    it: it   Avas,    too, 

really  very  wrong  to  give  us  punch  and  hot 
salmon  for  supper,  I  shall  speak  about  it  at 
the  first  opportunity.  I  have  half  a  mind  to 
go  back  again,  and  say  what  I  suffer.  But 
no,  that  would  be  too  silly  ;  and  Heaven  only 
knows  if  they  are  up  still." 

He  looked  for  the  house,  but  it  had  van- 
ished. 

"It  is  really  dreadful,"  groaned  he  with 
increasing  anxiety  ;  I  cannot  recognise  East 
Street  again  ;  there  is  not  a  single  decent 
shop  from  one  end  to  the  other  !  Nothing 
but  wretched    huts  can  I   see  any  where  • 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE    COUNCILLOR.         17 

just  as  if  I  were  at  Ringstead.  Oh  !  I  am 
ill !  I  can  scarcely  bear  myself  any  longer. 
Where  the  deuce  can  the  house  be  ?  It  must 
be  here  on  this  very  spot ;  yet  there,  is  not 
the  slightest  idea  of  resemblance,  to  such 
a  degree  has  every  thing  changed  this 
night ! — At  all  events  here  are  some  people 
up  and  stirring.  Oh  !  oh  !  I  am  certainly 
very  ill." 

He  now  hit  upon  a  half-open  door,  through 
a  chink  of  which  a  faint  liglit  shone.  It 
was  a  sort  of  hostehy  of  those  times  :  a  kind 
of  public-house.  The  room  had  some  re- 
semblance to  the  ciay-lloored  halls  in  Hol- 
stein  ;  a  pretty  numerous  company,  consist- 
ing of  seamen,  Copenhagen  burghers,  and  a 
few  scholars,  sat  here  in  deep  converse  over 
their  pewter  cans,  and  gave  little  heed  to 
the  peison  who  entered. 

"  By  your  leave  !"  said  the  Councillor  to 
the  Hostess,  who  came  bustling  towards 
him ;  "  I've  felt  so  queer  all  of  a  sudden ; 
would  you  have  the  goodness  to  send  for  a 
hackney-coach  to  take  me  to  Christian- 
shafen  ?" 

The  woman  examined  him  with  eyes  cf 
2 


18  THE    SHOES    OP    FORTUNE. 

astonishment,  and  shook  her  head  ;  she  then 
addressed  him  in  German.  The  Councillor 
thought  she  did  not  understand  Danish,  and 
therefore  repeated  his  wish  in  German. 
This,  in  connection  with  his  costume, 
strengthened  the  good  woman  in  the  belief 
that  he  was  a  foreigner.  That  he  was  ill, 
she  comprehended  directly ;  so  she  brought 
him  a  pitcher  of  water,  which  tasted  certain- 
ly pretty  strong  of  the  sea,  although  it  had 
been  fetched  from  the  well. 

The  Councillor  supported  his  head  on  his 
hand,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  thought  over 
all  the  wondrous  things  he  saw  around  him. 

"  Is  this  the  Daily  News  of  this  evening  ?" 
he  asked  mechanically,  as  he  saw  the  Hos- 
tess push  aside  a  large  sheet  of  paper. 

The  meaning  of  this  councillorship  query 
remained,  of  course,  a  riddle  to  her,  yet  she 
handed  him  the  paper  without  replying.  It 
was  a  coarse  wood-cut,  representing  a  splen- 
did meteor  "  as  seen  in  the  town  of  Cologne," 
which  was  to  be  read  below  in  bright  letters. 

"  That  is  very  old  !"  said  the  Councillor, 
whom  this  piece  of  antiquity  began  to  make 
considerably  more  cheerful.     "  Pray  how  did 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE    COUNCILLOR.         19 

you  come  into  possession  of  this  rare  print? 
It  is  extremely  interesting,  although  the 
whole  is  a  mere  fable.  Such  meteorous 
appearances  are  to  be  explained  in  this  way  • 
— that  they  are  the  reflections  of  the  Aurora 
Borealis,  and  it  is  highly  probable  they  are 
caused  principally  by  electricity." 

Those  persons  who  were  sitting  nearest 
him  and  heard  his  speech,  stared  at  him  in 
wonderment ;  and  one  of  them  rose,  took  off 
his  hat  respectfully,  and  said  with  a  serious 
countenance,  "  You  are  no  doubt  a  very 
learned  man,  Monsieur." 

"  Oh  no,"  answered  the  Councillor,  "1  can 
only  join  in  conversation  on  this  topic  and 
on  that,  as  indeed  one  must  do  according  to 
the  demands  of  the  world  at  present." 

"  Modestia  is  a  fine  virtue,"  continued  the 
gentleman  ;  "  however,  as  to  your  speech,  I 
must  say  mihi  secus  videtiir  :  yet  I  am  will- 
ing to  suspend  my  JHdiciu7n" 

"  May  I  ask  with  whom  I  have  the  pleasure 
of  speaking?"  asked  the  Councillor. 

"  I  am  a  Bachelor  in  Theologia"  answer^ 
ed  the  gentleman  with  a  stiff  reverence. 

This  reply  fully  satisfied  the  Councillor ; 


20  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

the  title  suited  the  dress.  "  He  is  certainly," 
thought  he,  "some  village  schoolmaster, — ^ 
some  queer  old  fellow,  such  as  one  still  often 
meets  with  in  Jutland." 

"  This  is  no  locus  doceiidi,  it  is  true,"  be- 
gan the  clerical  gentleman  ;  "  yet  I  beg  you 
earnestly  to  let  us  profit  by  your  learning. 
Your  reading  in  the  ancients  is,  sitie  dubiOj 
of  vast  extent  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I've  read  a  something,  to  be  sure," 
rephed  the  Councillor.  '•'  I  like  reading  all 
useful  works  ;  but  I  do  not  on  that  account 
despise  the  modern  ones ;  'tis  only  the  un- 
fortunate '  Tales  of  Ever-day  Life  '  that  I 
cannot  bear — we  have  enough  and  more 
than  enough  such  in  reality." 

"Tales  of  Every-day  Life?"  said  our 
Bachelor  inquiringly. 

"  I  mean  those  new  fangled  novels,  twist- 
ing and  writhing  themselves  in  the  dust  of 
commonplace,  which  also  expect  to  find  a 
reading  public." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  the  clerical  gentleman 
smiling,  "  there  is  much  wit  in  them  ;  besides 
they  are  read  at  court.  The  King  likes  the 
liistory  of  Sir  Iffven  and  Sir  Gaudian  particu 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE    COUNCILLOR.        21 

laily,  wh'ch  treats  of  King  Arthur,  and  liis 
Knights  of  ih".  Round  Table ;  he  has  more 
than  once  joked  about  it  with  his  high  vas- 
sals." 

"  I  have  not  read  that  novel,"  said  the 
Councillor ;  "  it  must  be  quite  a  new  one, 
that  Heiberg  has  publislied  lately." 

"  No,"  answered  the  theologian  of  the  time 
of  King  Hans  :  "  that  book  is  not  written  by 
a  Heiberg,  but  was  imprinted  by  Godfrey  von 
Gehmen." 

"  Oh,  is  that  the  author's  name  ?"  said  the 
Councillor.  "It  is  a  very  old  name:  and, 
as  well  as  I  recollect,  he  was  the  first  printer 
that  appeared  in  Denmark." 

"Yes,  he  is  our  first  printer,"  rephed  the 
clerical  gentleman  hastily. 

So  far  all  went  on  well.  Some  one  of  the 
worthy  burghers  now  spoke  of  the  dreadful 
pestilence  that  had  raged  in  the  country  a 
few  years  back,  meaning  that  of  1484.  The 
Councillor  imagined  it  was  the  cholera  that 
was  meant,  which  people  made  so  much  fuss 
about ;  and  the  discourse  passed  off  satisfac- 
torily enough.  The  war  of  the  buccanneera 
of  1490  was  so  recent  that  it  could  not  fail 

r 


22  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

being  alluded  to ;  the  English  pirates  had, 
they  said,  most  shamefully  taken  their  shipa 
while  in  the  roadstead  ;  and  the  Councillor, 
before  whose  eyes  the  Herostratic*  event  of 
1801  still  floated  vividly,  agreed  entirely  with 
the  others  in  abusing  the  rascally  English. 
With  other  topics  he  was  not  so  fortunate ; 
every  moment  brought  about  some  new  con- 
fusion, and  threatened  to  become  a  perfect 
Babel ;  for  the  worthy  bachelor  was  really 
too  ignorant,  and  the  simplest  observations 
of  the  Councillor  sounded  to  him  too  daring 
and  phantastical.  They  looked  at  one  an- 
other from  the  crown  of  the  head  to  the  soles 
of  the  feet ;  and  when  matters  grew  to  too 
high  a  pitch,  then  the  Bachelor  talked  Latin, 
in  the  hope  of  being  better  understood — but 
it  was  of  no  use  after  all. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  the  Hostess, 
plucking  the  Councillor  by  the  sleeve  ;  and 
now  his  recollection  returned,  for  in  the  course 
of  the  conversation  he  had  entirely  forgotten 
all  that  had  preceded  it. 

*  Herostratus,  or  Eratostratus, — an  Ephesian.  who 
wantonly  set  fire  to  the  famous  temple  of  Diana,  in  order 
«o  commemorate  his  name  by  so  uncommon  an  action. 


WHAT    BEFEL    THE    COUNCILLOR.        23 

"  Merciful  God,  where  am  I !"  exclaimed 
he  in  agony  ;  and  while  he  so  thought,  all 
his  ideas  and  feelings  of  overpowering  dizzi- 
ness, against  which  he  struggled  with  the 
utmost  power  of  desperation,  encompassed 
him  with  renewed  force.  "Let  us  drink 
claret  and  mead,  and  Bremen  beer,"  shouted 
one  of  the  guests — "and  you  shall  drink 
with  us  !" 

Two  maidens  approached.  One  wore  a 
cap  of  two  staring  colors,  denoting  the  class 
of  persons  to  which  she  belonged.  They 
poured  out  the  liquor,  and  made  the  most 
friendly  gesticulations  ;  while  a  cold  perspi- 
ration trickled  down  the  back  of  the  pool 
Councillor. 

"  What's  to  be  the  end  of  this  !  What's 
to  become  of  me  !"  groaned  he  ;  but  he  was 
forced,  in  spite  of  his  opposition,  to  drink 
with  the  rest.  They  took  hold  of  the  worthy 
man  ;  who,  hearing  on  every  side  that  he 
was  intoxicated,  did  not  in  the  least  doubt 
the  truth  of  this  certainly  not  very  polite 
assertion  ;  but  on  the  contrary,  implored  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  present  to  procure  him 


24  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

a  hackney-coach :  they,  however,  imagined 
he  was  talking  Russian. 

Never  before,  he  thought,  had  he  been  in 
such  a  coarse  and  ignorant  company ;  one 
might  ahnost  fancy  the  people  had  turned 
heathens  again.  "It  is  the  most  dreadful 
moment  of  my  hfe :  the  whole  world  is 
leagued  against  me  !"  But  suddenly  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  might  stoop  down 
under  the  table,  and  then  creep  unobserved 
out  of  the  door.  He  did  so ;  but  just  as  he 
was  going,  the  others  remarked  what  he  was 
about ;  they  laid  hold  of  him  by  the  legs ; 
and  now,  happily  for  him,  off  fell  his  fatal 
shoes — and  with  them  the  charm  was  at  an 
end. 

The  Councillor  saw  quite  distinctly  before 
^im  a  lantern  burning,  and  behind  this  a 
large  handsome  house.  All  seemed  to  him 
in  proper  order  as  usual ;  it  was  East  Street, 
splendid  and  elegant  as  we  now  see  it.  He 
lay  with  his  feet  towards  a  doorway,  and 
exactly  opposite  sat  the  watchman  asleep. 

"  Gracious  Heaven  !"  said  he,  "  have  I  lain 
here  in  the  street  and  dreamed  1  Yes  ;  'tia 
East  Street !  how  splendid  and   light  it  is ! 


THE  WATCHMAN  S  ADVENTURE.    25 

But  really  it  is  terrible  what  an  effect  that 
one  glass  of  punch  must  have  had  on  me  !" 
Two  minutes  later,  he  was  sitting  in  a 
hackney-coach  and  driving  to  Frederick- 
shafen.  He  thought  of  the  distress  and 
agony  he  had  endured,  and  praised  from  the 
very  bottom  of  his  heart  the  happy  reality — 
our  own  time — which,  with  all  its  deficien- 
cies, is  yet  much  better  than  that  in  which, 
so  much  against  his  inclination,  he  had 
lately  been. 


III. 

THE    watchman's    ADVENTURE. 

"Why,  there  is  a  pair  of  galoshes,  as 
sure  as  I'm  alive!"  said  the  watchman, 
awaking  from  a  gentle  slumber.  "  They 
belong  no  doubt  to  the  lieutenant  who  lives 
over  the  way.     They  lie  close  to  the  door." 

The  worthy  man  was  inclined  to  ring  and 
deliver  them  at  the  house,  for  there  was  still 


26  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

a  light  in  the  window ;  but  he  did  not  like 
disturbing  the  other  people  in  their  beds, 
and  so  very  considerately  he  left  the  matter 
alone. 

"  Such  a  pair  of  shoes  must  be  very  warm 
and  comfortable,"  said  he  ;  "  the  leather  is  so 
soft  and  supple."  They  fitted  his  feet  as 
though  they  had  been  made  for  him.  "  'Tis 
a  curious  world  we  live  in,"  continued  he, 
soliloquising.  "  There  is  the  lieutenant, 
now,  who  might  go  quietly  to  bed  if  he 
chose,  where  no  doubt  he  could  stretch  him- 
self at  his  ease  ;  but  does  he  do  it?  No  ;  he 
saunters  up  and  down  his  room,  because, 
probably,  he  has  enjoyed  too  many  of  the 
good  things  of  this  world  at  his  dinner. 
That's  a  happy  fellow !  he  has  neither  an 
infirm  mother,  nor  a  whole  troop  of  everlast- 
ingly hungry  children  to  torment  him.  Every 
evening  he  goes  to  a  party,  where  his  nice 
supper  costs  him  nothing  :  would  to  Heaven 
J_cquld  but  change  with  him  !  how^happy 
shouid  I  be?^""      ^ 

While  expressing  his  wish,  the  charm  of 
the  shoes,  which  he  had  put  on.  Began  to 
work  ;  the  watchman  entered  into  the  being 


THE  watchman's  ADVENTURE.    27 

and  nature  of  the  lieutenant.  He  stood  in 
the  handsomely  fuirnshecl  apartment,  and 
held  between  his  fingers  a  small  sheet  of 
rose-colored  paper,  on  which  some  verses 
were  written, — written  indeed  by  the  officer 
himself;  for  who  has  not,  at  least  once  in  his 
life,  had  a  lyrical  moment?  and  if  one  then 
marks  down  one's  thoughts,  poetry  is  pro- 
duced.    But  here  was  written : 

OH,    WERE    I    RICH  ! 

*•  Oh,  were  I  rich  !"     Such  was  my  wish,  yea  such 
When  hardly  three  feet  high,  I  longed  for  much. 
Oh.  were  I  rich  !  an  officer  were  I, 
With  sword,  and  uniform,  and  plume  so  high. 
And  the  time  came,  and  officer  was  I .' 
But  yet  I  grew  not  rich.     Alas,  poor  mc ! 
Have  pity,  Thou,  who  all  man's  wants  dost  see. 

I  sat  one  evening  sunk  in  dreams  of  bliss, 
A  maid  of  seven  years  old  gave  me  a  kiss, 

I  at  that  time  was  rich  in  poesy 

And  tales  of  old,  though  poor  as  poor  could  be  ; 

But  all  she  asked  for  was  this  poesy. 
I'hen  was  I  rich,  but  not  in  gold,  poor  me  I 
As  Thou  dost  know,  who  all  men's  hearts  caust  see. 

Oh,  were  I  rich !     Oft  asked  I  for  this  boon. 
The  child  grew  up  to  womauhood  full  soon. 


28  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE, 

She  is  so  pretty,  clever,  and  so  kind , 

Oh,  did  she  know  what's  hidden  in  my  mind  :— 

A  tale  of  old.     Would  she  to  me  were  kind! 

But  I'm  condemned  to  silence  I  oh,  poor  me ! 

As  Thou  dost  know,  who  all  men's  hearts  canst  see 

Oh,  were  I  rich  in  calm  and  peace  of  mind. 

My  grief  you  then  would  not  here  written  find! 
O  thou,  to  whom  I  do  my  heart  devote, 
Oh  read  this  page  of  glad  days  now  remote, 
A  dark,  dark  tale,  which  I  to  niglit  devote! 

Dark  is  the  future  now.     Alas,  poor  me  ! 

Have  pity  Thou,  who  all  men's  pains  dost  see. 

Such  verses  as  these  people  write  when 
they  are  in  love !  but  no  man  in  his  senses 
ever  thinks  of  printing  them.  Here  one  of 
the  son'ows  of  hfe,  in  which  there  is  real  po- 
etry, gave  itself  vent ;  not  that  barren  grief 
which  the  poet  may  only  hint  at,  but  never 
depict  in  its  detail — misery  and  want:  that 
animal  necessity,  in  short,  to  snatch  at  least 
at  a  fallen  leaf  of  the  bread-fruit  tree,  if  not 
at  the  fruit  itself  The  higher  the  position 
in  which  one  finds  oneself  transplanted,  the 
greater  is  the  suffering.  Every-day  necessity 
is  the  stagnant  pool  of  hie — no  lovely  picture 
reflects  itself  therein.  Lieutenant,  love,  and 
lack  of  money — that  is  a  symbolic  triangle. 


THE  watchman's  ADVENTURE.    29 

or  jnuch  the  same  as  the  half  of  the  shattered 
die  of  Fortune.  This  the  Ueutenant  felt 
most  poignantly,  and  this  was  the  reason  he 
leant -his  head  against  the  window,  and  sigh- - 
ed  so  deeply, 

"  The  poor  watchman  out  there  in  the 
street  is  far  happier  than  I.  He  knows  not. 
what  I  term  privation.  He  has  a  home,  a 
wife,  and  children,  who  weep  with  him  over 
his  sorrows,  who  rejoice  with  him  when  he  is 
glad.  Oh,  far  happier  were  I,  could  I  ex- 
change with  him  my  being — with  his  desires 
and  with  his  hopes  perform  the  weary  pilgri- 
mage of  life  !  oh,  he  is  a  hundred  times  hap- 
pier than  1  !" 

In  the  same  moment  the  watchman  was 
again  watchman.  It  was  the  shoes  that 
caused  the  metamorphosis  by  means  of 
whicli,  unknown  to  himself,  he  took  upon 
him  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  officer; 
but,  as  we  have  just  seen,  he  felt  himself 
in  his  new  situation  much  less  contented, 
and  now  preferred  the  very  thing  which  but 
some  minutes  before  he  had  rejected.  _So 
then  the  watchman  was. again  watchman. 

"That  was  an    unpleasant   dream,"  said 


30  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

ne  .  "  but  'twas  droll  enough  altogether.  I 
fancied  that  I  was  the  lieutenant  over  there : 
and  yet  the  thing  was  not  very  much  to  my 
taste  after  all.  I  missed  my  good  old  mother 
and  the  dear  little  ones ;  who  almost  tear 
me  to  pieces  for  sheer  love." 

He  seated  himself  once  more  and  nodded  : 
the  dream  continued  to  haunt  him,  for  he 
still  had  the  shoes  on  his  feet.  A  falling  star 
shone  in  the  dark  firmament. 

"  There  falls  another  star,"  said  he  :   "  but 
what   does    it    matter ;    there    are    always 
enough  left.     I  should  not  much  mind  ex- 
amining the  little  glimmering  things  some- 
what nearer,   especially  the  moon  ;  for  that 
would  not  slip  so    easily  through    a   man's 
fingers.     When  we  die — so  at  feast  says  the 
student,  for  whom  my  wife  does  the  washing 
— we  shall  fly  about  as  light  as  a  feather  from 
one  such  a   star  to  the  other.     That's,   of 
}  ^course,    not    true :    but    'twould    be    pretty 
lenough  if  it  were   so.      If  I  .could  Jjut  oncfl. 
t  ■  take  a   leap  up  there,  my  body  might  stay 
here  on  the  steps  for  what  I  care." 

Behold ! — there  are  certain  things  in  the 
world  to  which  one  ought  never  to  give  utter- 


THE    watchman's    ADVENTURE.         31 

ance  except  with  the  greatest  caution  ;  but 
doubly  caiefu/  must  one  be  when  we  have 
the  Shoes  of  Fortune  on  our  feet.  Now  just 
hsten  to  what  happened  to  the  watchman. 

As  to  ourselves,  we  all  know  the  speed 
produced  by  the  employment  of  steam ;  we 
have  experienced  it  either  on  railroads,  or  in 
boats  when  crossing  the  sea ;  but  such  a 
flight  is  like  the  travelling  of  a  sloth  in  com- 
parison with  the  velocity  with  which  light 
moves.  It  flies  nineteen  million  times  faster 
than  the  best  race-horse ;  and  yet  electricity 
is  quicker  still.  Death  is  an  electric  shock 
which  our  heart  receives ;  the  freed  soul 
soars  upwards  on  the  wings  of  electricity. 
The  sun's  light  wants  eight  minutes  and  some 
seconds  to  perform  a  journey  of  more  than 
twenty  million  of  our  Danish*  miles  ;  borne 
by  electricity,  the  soul  wants  even  some  min- 
utes less  to  accomplish  the  same  flight.  To 
it  the  space  between  the  heavenly  bodies  is 
not  greater  than  the  distance  between  the 
homes  of  our  friends  in  town  is  for  us,  even 
if  they  live  a  short  way  from  each  other ; 
such  an  electric  shock  in  the  heart,  however, 

•  A  Danish  mile  it>  nearly  4|  English. 


32  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

costs  US  the  use  of  the  body  here  below  ;  un- 
less, hke  the  watchman  of  East  Street,  we 
happen  to  have  on  the  Shoes  of  Fortune. 

In  a  few  seconds  the  watchman  had  done 
the  fifty-two  thousand  of  our  miles  up  to  the 
moon,  which,  as  every  one  knows,  was  form- 
ed out  of  matter  much  lighter  than  our 
earth ;  and  is.  so  we  should  say,  as  soft  as 
newly-fallen  snow.  He  found  himself  on 
one  of  the  many  circumjacent  mountain- 
ridges  with  which  we  are  acquainted  by 
means  of  Dr.  Madler's  "  Map  of  the  Moon." 
Within,  down  it  sunk  perpendicularly  into  a 
caldron,  about  a  Danish  mile  in  depth ; 
while  below  lay  a  town,  whose  appearance 
we  can,  in  some  measure,  realize  to  ourselves 
;by  beating  the  white  of  an  egg  in  a  glass  of 
water.  The  matter  of  which  it  was  built  was 
just  as  soft,  and  formed  similar  towers,  and 
domes,  and  pillars,  transparent  and  rocking 
in  the  thin  air  ;  while  above  his  head  our 
earth  was  rolling  like  a  large  fiery  ball. 

He  perceived  immediately  a  quantity  of 
beings  who  were  certainly  what  we  call 
"  men  ;"  yet  they  looked  different  to  us.  A 
far   more  correct   imagination  than  that  of 


THE    watchman's    ADVENTURE.         33 

the  pseudo-Herschel*  had  created  them  ;  and 
if  they  had  been  placed  in  rank  and  file,  and 
copied  by  some  skilful  painter's  hand,  one 
would,  without  doubt,  have  exclaimed  invol- 
untarily, "  What  a  beautiful  arabesque !" 
They  had  a  language  too ;  but  surely  nobo- 
dy can  expect  that  the  soul  of  the  watchman 
should  understand  it.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it 
did  comprehend  it ;  for  in  our  souls  there 
germinate  far  greater  powers  than  we  poor 
mortals,  despite  all  our  cleverness,  have  any 
notion  of.  Does  she  not  show  us — she  the 
queen  in  the  land  of  enchantment — her  as- 
tounding dramatic  talent  in  all  our  dreams  ? 
There  every  acquaintance  appears  and  speaks 
upon  the  stage,  so  entirely  in  character,  and 
with  the  same  tone  of  voice,  that  none  of  us, 
when  awake,  w^ere  able  to  imitate  it.  How 
well  can  she  recall  persons  to  our  mind,  of 

*  This  relates  to  a  book  published  some  years  ago  in 
Germany,  and  said  to  be  by  Herschel,  which  contained 
a  description  of  the  moon  and  its  inhabitants,  written 
with  such  a  semblance  of  truth  that  many  were  deceived 
by  the  imposture. — C.  B. 

Probably  a  translation  of  the  celebrated  Moon  hoax, 
written  by  Richard  A.  Locke,  and  originally  published 
in  New  York. 


34  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

whom  we  have  not  thoug'ht  for  years  ;  when 
suddenly  they  step  forth  "  every  inch  a  man," 
resembling  the  real  personages,  even  to  the 
finest  features,  and  become  the  heroes  or  he- 
roines of  our  world  of  dreams.  In  reality, 
such  remembrances  are  rather  unpleasant : 
every  sin,  every  evil  thought,  may,  like  a 
clock  with  alarm  or  chimes,  l>e  repeated  at 
pleasure  ;  then  the  question  is  if  we  can 
trust  ourselves  to  give  an  account  of  every 
unbecoming  word  in  our  heart  and  on  our  lips. 
The  watchman's  spirit  understood  the  lan- 
guage of  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon  pretty 
well.  The  Selenites*  disputed  variously 
about  our  earth,  and  expressed  their  doubts 
if  it  could  be  inhabited  :  the  air,  they  said, 
must  certainly  be  too  dense  to  allow  any  ra- 
tional dweller  in  the  moon  the  necessary  free 
respiration.  They  considered  the  moon  alone 
to  be  inhabited  :  they  imagined  it  was  the 
real  heart  of  the  universe  or  planetary  system, 
on  which  the  genuine  Cosmopolites,  or  citi- 
zens of  the  world,  dwelt.  What  strange 
things  men — no,  what  strange  things  Selen 
ites  sometimes  take  into  their  heads  I 

*  Dwellers  in  the  moon. 


THE    watchman's    ADVENTURE.         35 

About  politics  they  had  a  good  deal  to  say. 
But  little  Denmark  must  take  care  wliat  it  is 
about,  and  not  run  counter  to  the  moon  ; 
that  g-reat  realm,  that  might  in  an  ill-humor 
bestir  itself,  and  dash  down  a  hail-storm  in 
our  faces,  or  force  the  Baltic  to  overflow  the 
sides  of  its  gigantic  basin. 

We  will,  therefore,  not  listen  to  what  was 
spoken,  and  on  no  condition  run  the  possibil- 
ity of  telling  tales  out  of  school ;  but  we  will 
rather  proceed,  hke  good  quiet  citizens,  to 
East  Street,  and  observe  what  happened 
meanwhile  to  the  body  of  the  watchman. 

He  sat  lifeless  on  the  steps :  the  morning- 
star,*  that  is  to  say,  the  heavy  wooden  staff, 
headed  with  iron  spikes,  and  which  had  no- 
thing else  in  common  with  its  sparkling  bro- 
ther in  the  sky,  had  glided  from  his  hand ; 
while  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  glassy  stare 
on  the  moon,  looking  for  the  good  old  fellow 
of  a  spirit  which  still  haunted  it. 

"  What's  the  hour,  watchman  ?"  asked  a 
passer-by.      But  when  the  watchman  gave 

*  The  watchmen  in  Germany,  had  formerly,  and  in 
some  places  they  still  carry  with  them,  on  their  rounds 
«it  night,  a  sort  of  mace  or  club,  known  in  ancient  times 
by  the  above  denomination. — C.  B. 


36  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

no  reply,  the  merry  roysterer,  who  was  now 
retuining  home  from  a  noisy  drinking  bout 
took  it  into  his  head  to  try  what  a  tweak  of 
the  nose  would  do,  on  which  the  supposed 
sleeper  lost  his  balance,  the  body  lay  motion- 
less, stretched  out  on  the  pavement :  the  man 
was  dead.  When  the  patrol  came  up,  all  his 
comrades,  \vho  comprehended  nothing  of  the 
whole  affair,  were  seized  wdth  a  dreadful 
fright,  for  dead  he  was,  and  he  remained  so. 
The  proper  authorities  were  informed  of 
the  circumstance,  people  talked  a  good  deal 
about  it,  and  in  the  morning  the  body  was 
carried  to  the  hospital. 

Now  that  would  be  a  very  pretty  joke,  if 
the  spirit  when  it  came  back  and  looked  for 
the  body  in  East  Street,  were  not  to  find  one. 
No  doubt  it  would,  in  its  anxiety,  run  off  to 
the  police,  and  then  to  the  "  Hiie  and  Cry  " 
office,  to  announce  that  "  the  finder  will  be 
handsomely  rewarded,"  and  at  last  away  tc 
the  hospital;  yet  we  may  boldly  assert  that 
the  soul  is  shrewdest  when  it  shakes  off  every 
fetter,  and  every  sort  of  leading-string, — the 
body  only  makes  it  stupid. 

The  seemingly  dead  body  of  the  watchman 


wandered,  as  we  have  said,  to  the  hospital, 
where  it  was  brought  into  the  general  view- 
ing-room  :  and  the  first  thing  that  was  done 
here  was  naturally  to  pull  off  the  galoshes — 
when  the  spirit,  that  was  merely  gone  out  on 
adventures,  must  have  returned  with  the 
quickness  of  lightning  to  its  earthly  tene- 
ment. It  took  its  direction  towards  the  body 
in  a  straight  line  ;  and  a  few  seconds  after, 
life  began  to  show  itself  in  the  man.  He 
asserted  that  the  ■  preceding  night  had  been 
the  worst  that  ever  the  malice  of  fate  had  al- 
lotted him ;  he  would  not  for  two  silver 
marks  again  go  through  what  he  had  en- 
dured while  moon-stricken  ;  but  now,  how- 
ever, it  was  over. 

The  same  day  he  was  discharged  from  the 
hospital  as  perfectly  cured  ;  but  the  Shoes 
meanwhile  remained  behind. 


38  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 


IV. 


A.     MOMENT      OF      HEAD      IMPORTANCE AN 

evening's      "  DRAMATIC      READINGS" A 

MOST    STRANGE    JOURNEY. 

Every  inhabitant  of  Copenhagen  knows, 
from  personal  inspection,  how  the  entrance 
to  Frederick's  Hospital  looks ;  but  as  it  is 
possible  that  others,  who  are  not  Copenhagen 
people,  may  also  read  this  little  work,  we 
will  beforehand  give  a  short  description  of  it. 

The  extensive  building  is  separated  from 
the  street  by  a  pretty  high  railing,  the  thick 
iron  bars  of  which  are  so  far  apart,  that  in 
all  seriousness,  it  is  said,  some  very  thin 
fellow  had  of  a  night  occasionally  squeezed 
himself  through  to  go  and  pay  his  little  visits 
in  the  town.  The  part  of  the  body  most 
difficult  to  manage  on  such  occasions  was, 
no  doubt,  the  head ;  here,  as  is  so  often  the 
case  in  the  world,  long-headed  people  get 
through  best.  So  much,  then,  for  the  intro- 
duction. 

One  of  the  young  men,  whose  head,  in  a 


A  MOMENT  OF  HEAD  IMPORTANCE.  39 

physical  sense  only,  might  be  said  to  be  of 
the  thickest,  had  the  watch  that  evening. 
The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents ;  yet  de- 
spite these  two  obstacles,  the  young  man  was 
obliged  to  go  out,  if  it  were  but  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour ;  and  as  to  telling  the  door-keeper 
about  it,  that,  he  thought,  was  quite  unne- 
cessary, if.  with  a  whole  skin,  he  were  able 
to  slip  through  the  railings.  There,  on  the 
floor  lay  the  galoshes,  which  the  watchman 
had  forgotten  ;  he  never  dreamed  for  a  mo- 
ment that  they  were  those  of  Fortune  ;  and 
they  promised  to  do  him  good  service  in  the 
wet ;  so  he  put  them  on.  The  question  now 
was,  if  he  could  squeeze  himself  through  the 
grating,  for  he  had  never  tried  before.  Well, 
there  he  stood. 

"  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  got  my  head 
through !"  said  he,  involuntarily ;  and  in- 
stantly through  it  slipped,  easily  and  without 
pain,  notwithstanding  it  was  pretty  large 
and  thick.  But  now  the  rest  of  the  body 
was  to  be  got  through ! 

"  Ah  !  I  am  much  too  stout,"  groaned 
he  aloud,  w  hile  fixed  as  in  a  vice ;  "  I  had 
thought  the  head  was  the  most  difficult  part 


40  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

of    the    matter — oh  !    oh !    I   really  cannot 
squeeze  myself  through  !" 

He  now  wanted  to  pull  his  over-hasty  head 
back  again,  but  he  could  not.  For  his  neck 
there  was  room  enough,  but  for  nothing 
more.  His  first  feeling  was  of  anger  ;  his 
next  that  his  temper  fell  to  zero.  The  Shoes 
of  Fortune  had  placed  him  in  the  most  dread- 
ful situation ;  and,  unfortunately,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  to  wish  himself  free.  The 
pitch-black  clouds  poured  down  their  contents 
in  still  heavier  torrents  ;  not  a  creature  was 
to  be  seen  in  the  streets.  To  reach  up  to 
the  bell  was  w^hat  he  did  not  like ;  to  cry 
aloud  for  help  would  have  availed  him  little  ; 
besides,  how  ashamed  would  he  have  been  to 
be  found  caught  in  a  trap,  like  an  outwitted 
fox  !  How  was  he  to  twist  himself  through  ! 
He  saw  clearly  that  it  was  his  irrevocable 
destiny  to  remain  a  prisoner  till  dawn,  or, 
perhaps,  even  late  in  the  morning ;  then  the 
smith  must  be  fetched  to  file  away  the  bars ; 
but  all  that  would  not  be  done  so  quickly  as 
he  could  think  about  it.  The  whole  Charity 
School,  just  opposite,  would  be  in  motion  ; 
all    the    new   booths,  with   their   not   very 


AN  evening's  dramatic  READINGS.    41 

courtier-like  swarm  of  seamen,  would  join 
them  out  of  curiosity,  and  would  greet  hin» 
with  a  wild  "  hurrah  !"  while  he  was  stand- 
ing in  his  pillory  :  there  would  be  a  mob,  a 
hissing,  and  rejoicing,  and  jeering,  ten  times 
worse  than  in  the  rows  about  the  Jews  some 
years  ago — "  Oh,  my  blood  is  mounting  to 
my  brain  ;  'tis  enough  to  drive  one  mad  !  I 
shall  go  wild  !  I  know  not  what  to  do.  Oh  ! 
were  I  but  loose ;  my  dizziness  would  then 
cease  ;  oh,  were  my  head  but  loose  !" 

You  see  he  ought  to  have  said  that  sooner  ; 
for  the  moment  he  expressed  the  wish  his 
head  was  free  ;  and  cured  of  all  his  parox- 
ysms of  love,  he  hastened  off  to  his  room, 
where  the  pains  consequent  on  the  fright  the 
Shoes  had  prepared  for  him,  did  not  so  soon 
take  their  leave. 

But  you  must  not  think  that  the  affair  is 
over  now  ;  it  grows  much  worse. 

The  night  passed,  the  next  day  also ;  but 
nobody  came  to  fetch  the  Shoes. 

In  the  evening  "  Dramatic  Readings " 
were  to  be  given  at  the  little  theatre  in  Kmg 
Street.  The  house  was  filled  to  suffocation , 
and  among  other  pieces  to  be  recited  was  a 


42  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

new  poem  by  H.  C.  Andersen,  called,  Mi/ 
Aunfs  Spectacles ;  the  contents  of  which 
were  pretty  nearly  as  follows :  "  A  certain 
person  had  an  aunt,  who  boasted  of  particu- 
lar skill  in  fortune-telling  with  cards,  and  who 
was  constantly  being  stormed  by  persons  that 
^* Wanted  to  have  a  peep  into  futurity.  But 
^^vshe  was  full  of  mystery  about  her  art,  in 
J^\^  .which  a  certain  pair  of  magic  spectacles  did 
her  essential  service.  Her  nephew,  a  merry 
boy,  who  was  his  aunt's  darling,  begged  so 
long  for  these  spectacles,  that,  at  last,  she 
lent  him  the  treasure,  after  having  informed 
him,  with  many  exhortations,  that  in  order 
to  execute  the  interesting  trick,  he  need  only 
repair  to  some  place  where  a  great  many  per- 
sons were  assembled ;  and  then,  from  a 
higher  position,  whence  he  could  overlook 
the  crowd,  pass  the  company  in  review  before 
him  through  his  spectacles.  Immediately 
Hhe  inner  man'  of  each  individual  would  be 
displayed  before  him,  like  a  game  of  cards, 
in  which  he  unerringly  might  read  what  the 
future  of  every  person  presented  was  to  be. 
Well  pleased  the  little  magician  hastened 
away  to  prove  the  powers  of  the  spect&,cles 


in  the  theatre ;  no  place  seeming  to  him 
more  fitted  for  sach  a  trial.  He  begged  per- 
mission of  the  worthy  audience,  and  set  his 
spectacles  on  his  nose.  A  motley  phantas- 
magori  presents  itself  before  him,  which  he 
describes  in  a  few  satirical  touches,  yet  with- 
out expressing  his  opinion  openly  :  he  tells 
the  people  enough  to  set  them  all  thinking 
and  guessing ;  but  in  order  to  hurt  nobody, 
he  wraps  his  witty  oracular  judgments  in  a 
transparent  veil,  or  rather  in  a  lurid  thunder- 
cloud, shooting  forth  bright  sparks  of  wit, 
that  they  may  fall  in  the  powder-magazine 
of  the  expectant  audience." 

The  humorous  poem  was  admirably  recit- 
ed, and  the  speaker  nuich  applauded.  Among 
the  audience  was  the  young  man  of  the 
hospital,  who  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his 
adventure  of  the  preceding  night.  He  had 
on  the  Shoes ;  for  as  yet  no  lawful  owner 
had  appeared  to  claim  them  ;  and  besides  it 
was  so  very  dirty  out  of  doors,  they  were  just 
the  thino^  for  hiin,  he  thou«:ht. 

The  beginning  of  the  poem  he  praised 
with  great  geneiosity  :  he  even  found  the 
idea  wiginal  and  effective.     But  that  the  end 


44  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

of  it,  like  the  Rhine,  was  very  insignificant, 
proved,  in  his  opinion,  the  author's  want  of 
invention ;  he  was  without  genius,  (fee.  &c. 
(fee.  This  was  an  excellent  opportunity  to 
have  said  something  clever. 

Meanwhile  he  was  haunted  by  the  idea, — 
he  should  like  to  possess  such  a  pair  of 
spectacles  himself;  then,  perhaps,  by  using 
them  circumspectly,  one  W(3uld  be  able  to 
look  into  people's  hearts,  which,  he  thought, 
would  be  far  more  interesting  than  merely 
to  see  what  was  to  happen  next  year ;  for 
that  we  should  all  know  in  proper  time,  but 
the  other  never. 

"  I  can  now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  fancy 
the  whole  row  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  sit- 
ting there  in  the  front  row ;  if  one  could  but 
see  into  their  hearts ; — yes,  that  would  be  a 
revelation — a  sort  of  bazar.  In  that  lady 
yonder,  so  strangely  dressed.  1  should  find  for 
certain  a  large  milliner's  shop  ;  in  that  one 
the  shop  is  empty,  but  it  wants  cleaning 
plain  enough.  But  there  would  also  be  some 
good  stately  shops  among  them.  Alas !" 
sighed  he,  "  I  know  one  in  which  all  is 
stately  ;  but  there  sits  already  s.  spruce  young 


AN  EVEN/N«*S  DRAMATIC  READINGS.    45 

shopman,  which  is  the  only  thing  that's 
amiss  in  the  whole  shop.  All  would  be 
splendidly  decked  out,  and  we  should  hear, 
'  Walk  in,  gentlemen,  pray  walk  in  ;  here 
you  will  find  all  you  please  to  want.'  Ah  ! 
I  wish^to  Heaven  I  could  walk  in  and  take 
a  trip  right  through  the  hearts  of  those  pre- 
sent!" 

And  behold  !  to  the  Shoes  of  Fortune  this 
was  the  cue  ;  the  whole  man  shrunk  together 
and  a  most  uncommon  journey  through  the 
hearts  of  the  front  row  of  spectators,  now  be- 
gan. The  first  heart  through  which  he 
came,  w^as  that  of  a  middle-aged  lady,  but 
he  instantly  fancied  himself  in  the  room  of 
the  "  Institution  for  the  cure  of  the  crooked 
and  deformed,"  where  casts  of  mis-shapen 
limbs  are  displayed  in  naked  reality  on  the 
wall.  Yet  there  was  this  difference,  in  the 
institution  the  casts  were  taken  at  the  entry 
of  the  patient ;  but  here  they  were  retained 
and  guarded  in  the  heart  while  the  sound 
persons  went  away.  They  were,  namely, 
casts  of  female  friends,  whose  bodily  or  men- 
tal deformities  were  here  most  faithfully  pre- 
served. 

t 


J6  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

With  the  snake-Hke  writhings  of  an  idea 
he  glided  into  anothei-  female  heart ;  but  this 
seemed  to  him  like  a  large  holy  fane.  The 
white  dove  of  innocence  fluttered  over  the 
altar.  How  gladly  would  he  have  sunk  upon 
his  knees ;  but  he  must  away  to  the  next 
heart ;  yet  he  still  heard  the  pealing  tones 
of  the  organ,  and  he  himself  seemed  to  have 
become  a  newer  and  a  better  man ;  he  felt 
unworthy  to  tread  the  neighboring  sanctuary 
which  a  poor  garret,  with  a  sick  bed-rid 
mother,  revealed.  But  God's  warm  sun 
streamed  through  the  open  Avindow  ;  lovely 
roses  nodded  from  the  wooden  flower-boxes 
on  the  roof,  and  two  sky-blue  birds  sang  re- 
joicingly, while  the  sick  mother  implored 
God's  richest  blessings  on  her  pious  daughter. 

He  now  crept  on  hands  and  feet  through 
a  butcher's  shop ;  at  least  on  every  side,  and 
above  and  below,  there  was  nought  but  flesh. 
It  was  the  heart  of  a  most  respectable  rich 
man,  whose  name  is  certain  to  be  found  in 
the  Directory. 

He  was  now  in  the  heart  of  the  \vife  of 
this  worthy  gentleman.  It  was  an  old,  di- 
lapidated, mouldering   dovecot.      The  hus- 


A    MOST    STRANGE    JOURNEY.  47 

oand's  portrait  was  used  as  a  weather-cock, 
which  was  connected  in  some  \\^ay  or  other 
with  the  doors,  and  so  they  opened  and  shut 
of  their  own  accord,  whenever  the  stern  old 
husband  turned  round. 

Hereupon  he  Avandered  into  a  boudoir 
formed  entirely  of  mirrors,  hke  the  one  in 
Castle  Rosenburg  ;  but  here  the  glasses  mag- 
nified to  an  astonishing  degree.  On  the  floor. 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  sat,  like  a  Dalai- 
Lama,  the  insignificant  "  Self"  of  the  person, 
quite  confounded  at  his  own  greatness.  He 
then  hnagined  he  had  got  into  a  oieedle-case 
full  of  pointed  needles  of  every  size. 

"  This  is  certainly  the  heart  of  an  old 
maid,"  thought  lie.  But  he  was  mistaken. 
It  was  the  heart  of  a  young  military  man  ; 
a  man,  as  people  said,  of  talent  and  feeling. 

In  the  greatest  perplexity,  he  now  came 
out  of  the  last  heart  in  the  row  ;  he  was  un- 
able to  put  his  thoughts  in  order,  and  fancied 
that  his  too  livel}^  imagination  had  run  away 
with  him. 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  sighed  he  ;  "  I  have  sure- 
ly a  disposition  to  madness — 'tis  dreadfully 
hot  here  ;  my  blood  boils  in  my  veins  and  my 


4.S  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

head  is  burning  like  a  coal."  And  he  now 
remembered  the  important  event  of  the  even 
ing  before,  how  his  head  had  got  jammed  in 
between  the  iron  railings  of  the  hospital. 
"  That's  what  it  is,  no  doubt,"  said  he.  "  I 
must  do  something  in  time  :  under  such  cir- 
cumstances a  Russian  bath  might  do  me 
good.  I  only  wish  I  were  already  on  the  up- 
per bank."* 

And  so  there  he  lay  on  the  uppermost 
bank  in  the  vapor-bath ;  but  with  all  his 
clothes  on,  in  his  boots  and  galoshes,  while 
the  hot  drops  fell  scalding  from  the  ceiling 
on  his  face. 

•'  Holloa !"  cried  he,  leaping  down.  The 
bathing  attendant,  on  his  side,  uttered  a  loud 
cry  of  astonishment  when  he  beheld  in  the 
bath,  a  man  completely  dressed. 

The  other,  however,  retained  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  whisper  to  him,  "  'T  is  a 
bet,  and  I  have  won  it !"     But  the  first  thing 

*  In  these  Russian  (vapor)  baths  the   person  exteuds 
himself  on  a  bank  or  foi-m,  and  as  he  gets  accustomed  to 
the  heat,  moves  to  another  higher  up  tow^ards  the  ceil 
ing,  where,  of  course,  the    vapor  is  warmest.     In  this 
manner  he  ascends  gradually  to  the  highest. 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  49 

he  did  as  soon  as  he  got  home,  was  to  have 
a  large  bhster  put  on  his  chest  and  back  to 
draw  out  his  madness. 

The  next  morning  he  had  a  sore  chest 
and  a  bleeding  back  ;  and,  excepting  the 
fright,  that  was  all  that  he  had  gained  by 
the  Shoes  of  Fortune. 


V. 

METAMORPHOSIS    OF    THE    COPYING-CLERK. 

The  watchman,  whom  we  have  certainly 
not  forgotten,  thought  meanwhile  of  the  ga- 
loshes he  had  found  and  taken  with  him  to 
the  hospital ;  he  now  went  to  fetch  them  ; 
and  as  neither  the  lieutenant,  nor  any  body 
else  in  the  street,  claimed  them  as  his  pro- 
perty, they  were  dehvered  over  to  the  police- 
office.* 

*  As  on  the  continent,  in  all  law  and  poVce  practices 
nothing  is  verbal,  but  any  circumstance,  however  tri- 
fling, is  reduced  to  writing,   the  labor,  as  well  as  the 


50  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

"  Why,  I  declare  the  Shoes  look  just  like 
my  own,"  said  one  of  the  clerks,  eyeing  the 
newly-found  treasure,  whose  hidden  powers, 
even  he,  sharp  as  he  was,  was  not  able  to 
discover.  "  One  must  have  more  than  the 
eye  of  a  shoemaker  to  know  one  pair  from 
the  other,"  said  he,  soliloquizing ;  and  put- 
ting, at  the  same  tune,  the  galoshes  in  search 
of  an  owner,  beside  his  own  in  the  corner. 

"  Here,  sir  !"  said  one  of  the  men,  who 
panting  brought  him  a  tremendous  pile  of 
papers. 

The  copying-clerk  turned  round  and  spoke 
awhile  Avith  the  man  about  the  reports  ard 
legal  documents  in  question  ;  but  when  he 
had  finished,  and  his  eye  fell  again  on  the 
Shoes,  he  was  unable  to  say  whether  those 
to  the  left  or  those  to  the  right  belonged  to 
him.  "  At  all  events  it  must  be  those  which 
are  wet,"  thought  he  ;  but  this  time,  in  spite 
of  his  cleverness,  he  guessed  quite  wrong,  for 
it  was  just  those  of  Fortune  which  played  as 

number  of  papers  that  thus  accumulate,  is  enormous.  In 
a   police-office,    consequently,  we   find    copying-clerks 
liraong  many  other  scribes  of  various  denominations,  o 
V  'M<rh.  it  seemp    -^ur  hero  was  one. 


THE    COPYING-CLERK  51 

it  were  into  his  hands,  or  rather  on  his  feet 
And  why,  I  should  hke  to  know,  are  the  po 
lice  never  to  be  wrong  ?  So  he  put  them  on 
quickly,  stuck  his  papers  in  his  pocket,  and 
took  besides  a  few  under  his  arm,  intending 
to  look  them  through  at  home  to  make  the 
necessary  notes.  It  was  noon ;  and  the 
weather,  that  had  threatened  rain,  began  to 
clear  up,  while  gaily  dressed  holiday  folks 
filled  the  streets.  "  A  little  trip  to  Fredericks- 
burg would  do  me  no  great  harm,"  thought 
he  ;  "  for  I,  poor  beast  of  burden  that  I  am, 
have  so  much  to  annoy  me,  that  I  don't 
know  what  a  good  appetite  is.  'T  is  a  bitter 
crust,  alas !  at  which  I  am  condemned  to 
gnaw !" 

Nobody  could  be  more  steady  or  quiet  than 
this  young  man;  we  therefor 3  wish  him  joy 
of  the  excursion  with  all  our  heart ;  and  it 
will  certainly  be  beneficial  for  a  person  who 
leads  so  sedentary  a  life.  In  the  park  he 
met  a  friend,  one  of  our  young  poets,  who 
told  him  that  the  following  day  he  should  sel 
out  on  his  long-intended  tour. 

"  So  you  are  going  away  again  !"  said  the 
clerk.     "  You  are  a  very  firee  and  happy  be- 


52  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

mg ;  we  others  are  chained  by  the  leg  and 
held  fast  to  our  desk." 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  is  a  chain,  friend,  which  en- 
sures you  the  blessed  bread  of  existence," 
answered  the  poet.  "  You  need  feel  no  care 
for  the  coming  morrow :  when  you  are  old, 
you  receive  a  pension." 

"True,"  said  the  clerk,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  ;  "  and  yet  you  are  the  better  off. 
To  sit  at  one's  ease  and  poetise — that  is  a 
pleasure ;  every  body  has  something  agreea- 
ble to  say  to  you,  and  you  are  always  your 
own  master.  No.  friend,  you  should  but  try 
what  it  is  to  sit  from  one  year's  end  to  the 
other  occupied  with  and  judging  the  most 
trivial  matters." 

The  poet  shook  his  head,  the  copying- 
clerk  did  the  same.  Each  one  kept  to  his 
own  opinion,  and  so  they  separated. 

"  It's  a  strange  race,  those  poets  !"  said  the 
clerk,  who  was  very  fond  of  soliloquizing. 
'I  should  like  some  day,  just  for  a  trial,  to 
take  such  nature  upon  me,  and  be  a  poet 
myself;  I  am  very  sure  I  should  make  no 
such  miserable  verses  as  the  others.  To-day, 
methinks,  is  a  most  delicious  day  for  a  poet : 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  53 

Nature  seems  anew  to  celebrate  her  awaken- 
ing into  life.  The  air  is  so  unusually  clear, 
the  clouds  sail  on  so  buoyantly,  and  from 
the  green  herbage  a  fragrance  is  exhaled  that 
fills  me  with  delight.  For  many  a  year 
have  I  not  felt  as  at  this  moment." 

We  see  already,  by  the  foregoing  effusion, 
that  he  is  become  a  poet ;  to  give  further 
proof  of  it,  however,  would  in  most  cases  be 
insipid,  for  it  is  a  most  foolish  notion  to  fancy 
a  poet  difVerent  from  other  men.  Among 
the  latter  there  may  be  far  more  poetical  na- 
tures than  many  an  acknowledged  poet, 
when  examined  more  closely,  could  boast  of; 
the  dilference  only  is,  that  the  poet  possesses 
a  better  mental  memory,  on  which  account 
he  is  able  to  retain  tlie  feeling  and  the 
thought  till  they  can  be  embodied  by  means 
of  words  ;  a  faculty  which  the  otheis  do  not 
possess.  But  the  transition  from  a  common- 
place nature  to  one  that  is  richly  endowed, 
demands  always  a  more  or  less  breakneck 
leap  over  a  certain  abyss  which  yawns  threat- 
eningly below ;  and  thus  nmst  the  sudden 
change  with  the  clerk  strike  the  reader. 

"  The  sweet  air  !"  continued  he  of  the  po 


54  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

lice  office,  in  his  dreamy  imaginings  ;  "  how 
it  reminds  me  of  the  violets  in  the  garden  of 
my  aunt  Magdalena !  Yes,  then  I  was  a 
little  wild  boy,  who  did  not  go  to  school  very 
regularly.  O  heavens  !  'tis  a  longtime  since 
I  have  thought  on  those  times.  The  good 
old  soul !  She  lived  behind  the  Exchange. 
She  ahvays  had  a  few  twigs  or  green  shoots 
in  water — let  the  winter  rage  without  as  it 
might.  The  violets  exhaled  their  sweet 
breath,  whilst  1  pressed  against  the  window- 
panes  covered  with  fantastic  frost-work  the 
copper  coin  I  had  heated  on  the  stove,  and 
so  made  peep-holes.  What  splendid  vistas 
were  then  opened  to  my  view  !  What 
change — w^hat  magnificence  !  Yonder  in 
the  canal  lay  the  ships  frozen  up,  and  desert- 
ed by  their  whole  crews,  with  a  screaming 
crow^  for  the  sole  occupant.  But  when  the 
spring,  with  a  gentle  stirring  motion,  an- 
nounced her  arrival,  a  new  and  busy  life 
arose;  with  songs  and  hurrahs  the  ice  was 
sawn  asunder,  the  ships  w^ere  fresh  tarred 
and  rigged,  that  they  might  sail  away  to  dis- 
tant lands.  But  I  have  remained  here — 
must  always  remain  here,  sitting  at  my  desk 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  55 

in  the  ofiice,  and  patiently  see  other  people 
fetch  their  passports  to  go  abroad.  Such  is 
my  fate  !  Alas  !'' — sighed  he,  and  was  again 
silent.  "  Great  Heaven  !  what  is  come  to 
me !  never  have  I  thought  or  felt  like  this 
before !  It  must  be  the  summer  air  that 
affects  me  with  feelings  almost  as  disquieting 
as  they  are  refreshing."  He  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  the  papers.  "  These  police-reports  will 
soon  stem  the  torrent  of  my  ideas,  and  effec- 
tually hinder  any  rebeUious  overflowing  of  the 
time-worn  banks  of  official  duties  ;"  he  said  to 
himself  consolingl}^,  while  his  eye  ran  over  the 
first  page.  "Dame  Tigbrith,  tragedy  in 
five  acts."  "  What  is  that  ?  And  yet  it  is  un- 
deniably my  own  handwriting.  Have  I  writ- 
ten the  tragedy  ?  Wonderful,  very  wonderful ! 
— And  this — what  have  I  here?  'Intrigue 
ON  the  ramparts  ;  or  the  day  of  repent- 
ance :  vaudeville  with  new  songs  to  the 
most  favorite  airs.'  The  deuce  !  where  did  I 
get  all  this  rubbish  ?  Some  one  must  have 
slipped  it  slyly  into  my  pocket  for  a  joke. 
There  is  too  a  letter  to  me  ;  a  crumpled 
letter  and  the  seal  broken." 
Yes,  it  was  not  a  very  polite  epistle  from 


56  THE    SHOES    OP    FORTUNE. 

the  manager  of  a   theatre,   in  which  both 
pieces  were  flatly  refused. 

"  Hem  !  hem  !"  said  the  clerk  breathlessly, 
and  quite  exhausted  he  seated  himself  on  a 
bank.  His  thoughts  were  so  elastic,  his 
heart  so  tender  ;  and  involuntarily  he  picked 
one  of  the  nearest  flowers.  It  is  a  simple 
daisy,  just  bursting  out  of  the  bud.  What 
the  botanist  tells  us  after  a  number  of  imper- 
fect lectures,  the  flower  proclaimed  in  a  mi- 
nute. It  related  the  mythus  of  its  birth,  told 
of  the  power  of  the  sun-light  that  spread  out 
its  delicate  leaves,  and  forced  them  to  im- 
pregnate the  air  with  their  incense  : — and 
then  he  thought  of  the  manifold  struggles  of 
life,  which  in  like  manner  awaken  the  bud- 
ding flowers  of  feeling  in  our  bosom.  Light 
and  air  contend  with  chivalric  emulation  for 
the  love  of  the  fair  flower  that  bestowed  her 
chief  favors  on  the  latter  ;  full  of  longing  she 
turned  towards  the  light,  and  as  soon  as  it 
vanished,  rolled  her  tender  leaves  together 
and  slept  in  the  embraces  of  the  air.  "  It  is 
the  light  which  adorns  me,"  said  the  flower. 
"  But  'tis  the  air  which  enables  thee  tc 
breathe,"  said  the  poet's  voice. 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  57 

Close  by  stood  a  boy  who  dashed  his  stick 
into  a  wet  ditch.  The  drops  of  water  splash- 
ed up  to  the  green  leafy  roof,  and  the  clerk 
tliought  of  the  million  of  ephemera  which  in 
a  single  drop  were  thrown  up  to  a  lieight, 
that  was  as  great  doubtless  for  their  size,  as 
for  us  if  we  were  to  be  hurled  above  the 
clouds.  While  he  thought  of  this  and  of  the 
whole  metamorphosis  he  had  undergone,  he 
smiled  and  said,  "  I  sleep  and  dream  ;  but  it 
is  wonderful  how  one  can  dream  so  naturally, 
and  know  besides  so  exactly  that  it  is  but  a 
dream.  If  only  to-morrow  on  awaking,  I 
could  again  call  all  to  mind  so  vividly !  1 
seem  in  unusually  good  spirits  ;  my  percep- 
tion of  things  is  clear,  I  feel  as  light  and 
cheerful  as  though  I  were  in  heaven  ;  but  I 
know  for  a  certainty,  that  if  to-morrow  a  dim 
remembrance  of  it  should  swim  before  my 
mind,  it  will  then  seem  nothing  but  stupid  non- 
sense, as  I  have  often  experienced  already — 
especially  before  I  enlisted  under  the  banner 
of  the  police,  for  that  dispels  like  a  whirlwind 
all  the  visions  of  an  unfettered  imagination. 
All  we  hear  or  say  in  a  dream  that  is  fail 
and  beautiful  is  like  the  gold  of  the  subterra 


58  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

nean  spirits  ;  it  is  rich  and  splendid  when  it 
is  given  us,  but  viewed  by  dayhght  we  find 
only  withered  leaves.  "  Alas  !"  he  sighed  quite 
sorrowful,  and  gazed  at  the  chirping  birds  that 
hopped  contentedly  from  branch  to  branch, 
"  they  are  much  better  off  than  I !  To  fly 
must  be  a  heavenly  art;  and  happy- 4o- 1 
^, /prize  that  creature  in  which  it  is  innate. 
Yes  !  could  I  exchange  my  nature  with  any 
other  creature,  I  fain  would  be  such  a  happy 
little  lark !" 

He  had  hardly  uttered  these  hasty  words 
when  the  skirts  and  sleeves  of  his  coat  folded 
themselves  together  into  wings ;  the  clothes 
became  feathers,  and  the  galoshes  claws. 
'He  observed  it  perfectly,  and  laughed  in  his 
heart.  "  Now  then,  there  is  no  doubt  that  I 
am  dreaming  ;  but  I  never  before  was  aware 
of  such  mad  freaks  as  these."  And  up  he 
flew  into  the  green  roof  and  sang  ;  but  in  the 
song  there  was  no  poetry,  for  the  spirit  of  the 
poet  was  gone.  The  Shoes,  as  is  the  case 
with  anybody  who  does  what  he  has  to  do 
properly,  could  only  attend  to  one  thing  at  a 
time.  He  wanted  to  be  a  poet,  and  he  was 
one  ;  he  now  wished  to  be  a  merry  chirping 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  59 

bird  :  but  when  he  was  metamorphosed  into 
one,  the  former  pecuharities  ceased  immedi- 
ately. "  It  is  really  pleasant  enough,"  said 
he :  "  the  whole  day  long  I  sit  in  the  office 
amid  the  driest  law-papers,  and  at  night  I 
fly  in  my  dream  as  a  lark  in  the  gardens  of 
Fredericksburg;  one  might  really  write  a 
very  pretty  comedy  upon  it."  He  now  flut- 
tered down  into  the  grass,  turned  his  head 
gracefully  on  every  side,  and  with  his  bill 
pecked  the  pliant  blades  of  grass,  which,  in 
comparison  to  his  present  size,  seemed  as 
majestic  as  the  palm-branches  of  northern 
Africa. 

Unfortunately  the  pleasure  lasted  but  a 
moment.  Presently  black  night  oversha- 
dowed our  enthusiast,  who  had  so  entnely 
missed  his  part  of  copying-clerk  at  a  police- 
office  ;  some  vast  object  seemed  to  be  thrown 
over  him.  It  was  a  large  oil-skin  cap,  wliich 
a  sailor-boy  of  the  quay  had  thrown  over  the 
struggling  bird  ;  a  coarse  hand  sought  its 
way  carefully  in  under  the  broad  rim,  and 
seized  the  clerk  over  the  back  and  wings.  In 
the  first  moment  of  fear,  he  called,  indeed,  as 
loud    as   he   could — "You    impudent   little 


60  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

blackguard  !  I  am  a  copying-clerk  at  the  po- 
lice office ;  and  you  know  you  cannot  insult 
any  belonging  to  the  constabulary  force  with- 
out a  chastisement.  Besides,  you  good-for- 
nothing  rascal,  it  is  strictly  forbidden  to  catch 
birds  in  the  royal  gardens  of  Fredericksburg ; 
but  your  blue  uniform  betrays  where  you 
come  from."  This  fine  tirade  sounded,  how- 
ever, to  the  ungodly  sailor-boy  like  a  mere 
"  Pip-pi-pi."  He  gave  the  noisy  bird  a  knock 
on  his  beak,  and  walked  on. 

He  was  soon  met  by  two  schoolboys  of  the 
upper  class, — that  is  to  say  as  individuals, 
for  with  regard  to  learning  they  were  in  the 
lowest  class  in  the  school ;  and  they  bought 
the  stupid  bird.  So  the  copying-clerk  cam& 
to  Copenhagen  as  guest,  or  rather  as  prisoner 
in  a  family  living  in  Gother  Street. 

"  'T  is  well  that  I'm  dreaming,"  said  the 
clerk,  "or  I  really  should  get  angry.  First 
I  was  a  poet ;  now  sold  for  a  few  pence  as  a 
lark  ;  no  doubt  it  was  that  accursed  poetical 
nature  which  has  metamorphosed  me  into 
sucli  a  poor  harmless  little  creature.  It  is 
really  pitiable,  particularly  when  one  gets 
into  the  hands  of  a  little  blackguard,  perfect 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  61 

in  all  sorts  of  cruelty  to  animals  :  all  I  should 
dke  to  know  is,  how  the  story  will  end." 

The  two  school-boys,  the  proprietors  now 
of  the  transformed  clerk,  carried  him  into  an 
elegant  room.  A  stout  stately  dame  received 
them  with  a  smile  ;  but  she  expressed  much 
dissatisfaction  that  a  coonnon  field  bird,  as 
she  called  the  lark,  should  appear  in  such 
high  society.  For  to-day,  how^ever,  she 
would  allow  it ;  and  they  must  shut  him  in 
the  empty  cage  that  was  standing  in  the  win- 
dow. "  Perhaps  he  will  amuse  my  good 
Polly,"  added  the  lady,  looking  with  a  be- 
nignant smile  at  a  large  green  parrot  that 
swung  himself  backwards  and  forwards  most 
comfortably  in  his  ring,  inside  a  magnificent 
brass-wired  cage.  "  To-day  is  Polly's  birth- 
day," said  she  with  stupid  simplicity  :  "  and 
the  little  brown  field-bird  must  wish  him  joy." 

Mr.  Polly  uttered  not  a  syllable  in  reply, 
but  swung  to  and  fro  w^ith  dignified  conde- 
scension ;  while  a  pretty  canary,  as  yellow 
as  gold,  that  had  lately  been  brought  from 
his  sunny  fragrant  home,  began  to  sing 
aloud. 

"  Noisy   creature !    will    you   be    quiet  !^' 


62  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

screamed  the  lady  of  the  house,  covering  the 
cage  with  an  embroidered  white  pocket  hand- 
kerchief. 

"  Cliirp,  chirp  !"  sighed  he  ;  "  that  was  a 
dreadful  snow-storm  ;"  and  he  sighed  again, 
and  was  silent. 

The  copying-clerk,  or,  as  the  lady  said,  the 
brown  field-bird,  was  put  into  a  small  cage, 
close  to  the  Canary,  and  not  far  from  "my 
good  Polly."  The  only  human  sounds  that 
the  Parrot  could  bawl  out  were,  "Come,  let 
us  be  men  !"  Everything  else  that  he  said 
was  as  unintelligible  to  everybody  as  the 
chirping  of  the  Canary,  except  to  the  clerk, 
who  was  now  a  bird  too :  he  understood  his 
companion  perfectly. 

"  I  liew  about  beneath  the  green  palms 
and  the  blossoming  almond-trees,"  sang  the 
Canary ;  "  I  flew  around,  with  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  over  the  beautiful  flowers,  and 
over  the  glassy  lakes,  where  the  bright  water- 
plants  nodded  to  me  from  below.  There, 
loo,  I  saw  many  splendidly-dressed  paro- 
quets, that  told  the  drollest  stories,  and  .the 
wildest  fairy-tales  without  end." 

"  Oh  !  those  were  uncouth  birds,"  ansvrer- 


THE    COPYING-CLERK.  63 

ed  the  Parrot.  "  They  had  no  education, 
and  talked  of  whatever  came  into  their  head. 
If  my  mistress  and  all  her  friends  can  laugh 
at  what  I  say,  so  may  you  too,  I  should 
think.  It  is  a  great  fault  to  have  no  taste 
for  what  is  witty  or  amusing — come,  let  us 
be  men." 

"Ah,  you  have  no  remembrance  of  love 
for  the  charming  maidens  that  danced  be- 
neath the  outspread  tents  beside  the  bright 
fragrant  flowers  ?  Do  you  no  longer  remem- 
ber the  sweet  fruits,  and  the  cooling  juice  in 
the  wild  plants  of  our  never-to-be-forgotten 
home  ?"  said  the  former  inhabitant  of  the 
Canary  Isles,  continuing  his  dithyrambic. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Parrot ;  "  but  I  am 
far  better  off  here.  I  am  well  fed,  and  get 
friendly  treatment.  I  know  I  am  a  clever 
fellow  ;  and  that  is  all  I  care  about.  Come, 
let  us  be  men.  You  are  of  a  poetical  nature, 
as  it  is  called, — I.  on  the  contrary,  possess 
profound  knowledge  and  inexhaustible  wit. 
You  have  genius ;  but  clear-sighted,  calm 
discretion  does  not  take  such  lofty  flights, 
and  utter  such  high  natural  tones.  For  this 
they  have  covered  you  over, — they  never  do 


64  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

the  like  to  me  ;  for  I  cost  more.  Besides, 
they  are  afraid  of  my  beak  ;  and  I  have  al- 
ways a  witty  answer  at  liand.  Come,  let  us 
be  men  1" 

"  O  warm  spicy  land  of  my  birth,"  sang 
the  Canary  bird  ;  "  I  will  sing  of  thy  dark- 
green  bowers,  of  the  calm  bays  where  the 
pendent  boughs  kiss  the  surface  of  tiie  water  ; 
I  will  sing  of  the  rejoicing  of  all  my  brothei"? 
and  sisters  where  the  cactus  grows  in  wan- 
ton luxuriance." 

"  Spare  us  your  elegiac  tones,"  said  the 
Parrot  giggling-.  "Rather  speak  of  some- 
thing at  which  one  may  laugh  heartily. 
Laughing  is  an  infallible  sign  of  the  highest 
degree  of  mental  development.  Can  a  dogj 
or  a  horse  laugh  ?  No,  but  they  can  cry. 
The  gift  of  laughing  was  given  to  man 
alone.  Ha  I  ha  !  ha  !"  screamed  Polly,  and 
added  his  stereotype  witticism,  "  come,  let  us 
be  men  !" 

"  Poor  little  Danish  grey-bird,"  said  the 
Canary  ;  "you  have  been  cauglit  too.  It  is. 
no  doubt,  cold  enough  in  your  woods,  but 
there  at  least  is  the  breath  of  liberty  ;  there- 
fore lly  away.     In  the  hurry  they  have  for- 


THE    OOPYING-CLERK.  65 

g-otien  to  shut  your  cage,  and  the  upper  win- 
dow is  open.  Fly,  my  friend ;  fly  away, 
Farewell !"' 

Instinctively  the  Clerk  obeyed  ;  with  a  few 
strokes  of  his  wings  he  was  out  of  the  cage  ; 
but  at  the  same  moment  the  door,  which  was 
only  ajar,  and  which  led  to  the  next  room, 
began  to  creak,  and  supple  and  creeping 
came  the  large  tom-cat  into  the  room,  and 
began  to  pursue  him.  The  frightened  Ca- 
nary fluttered  about  in  his  cage  ;  the  Parrot 
flapped  his  wings,  and  cried,  "  Come,  let  us 
be  men !"  Tlie  Clerk  felt  a  mortal  fright, 
and  flew  through  the  window,  far  away  over 
the  houses  and  streets.  At  last  he  was 
forced  to  rest  a  little. 

The  neighboring  house  had  a  something 
familiar  about  it ;  a  window  stood  open  ;  he 
flew  in  ;  it  was  his  own  room.  He  perched 
upon  the  table. 

"  Coine,  let  us  be  men !"  said  he,  involun- 
tarily  imitating  the  chatter  of  the  Parrot, 
and  at  the  same  moment  he  was  again  a 
copying-clerk ;  but  he  was  sitting  in  the 
middle  of  the  table. 

"  Heaven  help  me  !"  cried  he.  "  How  did 
& 


66  THE    SHOES    OP    FORTUNE. 

I  get  up  here — and  so  buried  in  sleep,  too? 
After  all,  that  was  a  very  unpleasant,  disa- 
greeable dream  that  haunted  me !  The 
whole  story  is  nothing  but  silly,  stupid  non- 
sense !" 


VI. 


THE    BEST    THAT    TS^   GALOSHES    GAVE. 

The  following  day,  early  in  the  morning, 
while  til e  Clerk  was  still  in  bed,  some  one 
knocked  at  his  door.  It  was  his  neighbor,  a 
young  Divine,  who  lived  on  the  same  floor. 
He  walked  in. 

t  "  Lend  me  your  Galoshes,"  said  he  ;  "  it  is 
so  wet  in  the  garden,  though  the  sun  is  shin- 
ing most  invitingly.  I  should  like  to  go  out 
a  little." 

He  got  the  Galoshes,  and  he  was  soon  be- 
low in  a  little  duodecimo  garden,  where  be- 
tween two  immense  walls  a  plum-tree  and 
an  apple-tree  were  standing.     Even  such  a 


THE    BEST    THE    GALOSHES    GAVE.       67 

liltle  garden  as  this  was  considered  in  the 
metropohs  of  Copenhagen  as  a  great  luxury. 

The  young  man  wandered  up  and  down 
the  narrow  paths,  as  well  as  the  prescribed 
hmits  would  allow  ;  the  clock  struck  six ; 
without  was  heard  the  horn  of  a  post-boy. 

^'  To  travel !  to  travel !"  exclaimed  he, 
overcome  by  most  painful  and  passionate  re- 
membrances ;  "  that  is  the  happiest  thing  in 
the  world !  that  is  the  highest  aim  of  all  my 
wishes  !  Then  at  last  would  the  agonizing 
restlessness  be  allayed,  which  destroys  my 
existence  !  But  it  must  be  far,  far  away  !  I 
would  behold  magnificent  Switzerland ;  I 
w  ould  travel  to  Italy,  and ■' 

It  was  a  good  thing  that  the  power  of  the 
Galoshes  worked  as  instantaneously  as  light- 
ning in  a  powder-magazine  would  do,  other- 
wise the  poor  man  with  his  overstrained 
wishes  w^ould  have  travelled  about  the  world 
too  much  for  himself  as  well  as  for  us.  In 
short,  he  was*  travelling.  He  was  in  the 
middle  of  Switzerland,  but  packed  up  with 
eight  other  passengers  in  the  inside  of  an 
eternally-creaking  diligence ;  his  head  ached 
till   it  ahnost  split,  his   weary  neck  could 


6ft  THE   SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

hardly  bear  the  heavy  load,  and  his  feet^ 
pinched  by  his  torturing  boots,  were  terribly 
swollen.  He  was  in  an  intermediate  state 
between  sleeping  and  waking  ;  at  variance 
with  himself,  with  his  company,  with  the 
country,  and  with  the  government.  In  his 
right  pocket  he  had  his  letter  of  credit,  in  the 
left,  his  passport,  and  in  a  small  leathern 
purse  some  double  louis-d'or,  carefully  sewn 
up  in  the  bosom  of  his  waistcoat.  Every 
dream  proclaimed  that  one  or  the  other  of 
these  valuables  was  lost ;  wherefore  he  start- 
ed up  as  in  a  fever ;  and  the  first  movement 
which  his  hand  made,  described  a  magic  tri- 
angle from  the  right  pocket  to  the  left,  and 
then  up  towards  the  bosom,  to  feel  if  he  had 
them  all  safe  or  not.  From  the  roof  inside 
the  carriage,  umbrellas,  walking-sticks,  hat£j 
and  sundry  other  articles  were  depending, 
and  hindered  the  view,  which  was  particu- 
larly imposing.  He  now  endeavored  as  well 
as  he  was  able  to  dispel  his  gloom,  which 
was  caused  by  outward  chance  circumstan- 
ces merely,  and  on  the  bosom  of  nature  im- 
bibe the  milk  of  purest  human  enjoyment. 
Grand,  solemn,  and  dark  was  the  whole 


THE    BEST    THE    GALOSHES    GAVE.       69 

landscape  around.  The  gigantic  pine-forests, 
on  the  pointed  crags,  seemed  almost  hke  little 
tufts  of  heather,  colored  by  the  surrounding 
clouds.  It  began  to  snow,  a  cold  wind  blew 
and  roared  as  though  it  were  seeking  a  bride. 

"  Augh  !"  sighed  he,  "  were  we  only  on  the 
other  side  the  Alps,  then  we  should  have 
summer,  and  I  could  get  my  letters  of  credit 
cashed.  The  anxiety  I  feel  about  them  pre- 
vents me  enjoying  Switzerland.  Were  I  but 
on  the  other  side  !" 

And  so  saying  he  was  on  the  other  side  in 
Italy,  between  Florence  and  Rome.  Lake 
Thracymene,  illumined  by  the  evening  sun, 
lay  like  flaming  gold  between  the  dark-blue 
mountain-ridges ;  here,  where  Hannibal  de- 
feated Flaminius,  the  rivers  now  held  each 
other  in  their  green  embraces  ;  lovely,  half- 
naked  children  tended  a  herd  of  black  swine, 
beneath  a  group  of  fragrant  laurel-trees,  hard 
by  the  road-side.  Could  we  render  this  ini- 
mitable picture  properly,  then  would  every- 
body exclaim,  "  Beautiful,  unparalleled 
Italy !"  But  neither  the  young  Divine  said 
so,  nor  any  one  of  his  grumbling  companions 
m  the  coach  of  the  vetturino. 


70  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

The  poisonous  flies  and  gnats  swarmed 
around  by  thousands ;  in  vain  one  waved 
myrtle-branches  about  like  mad  ;  the  auda- 
cious insect  population  did  not  cease  to  sting  ; 
nor  was  there  a  single  person  in  the  well- 
crammed  carriage  whose  face  was  not  swol- 
len and  sore  from  their  ravenous  bites.  The 
poor  horses,  tortured  almost  to  death,  suffer- 
ed most  from  this  truly  Egyptian  plague ; 
the  flies  alighted  upon  them  in  large  disgust- 
ing swarms  ;  and  if  the  coachman  got  down 
and  scraped  them  off,  hardly  a  minute  elaps- 
ed before  they  were  there  again.  The  sun 
now  set :  a  freezing  cold,  though  of  short 
duration  pervaded  the  whole  creation  ;  it 
was  like  a  horrid  gust  coming  from  a  burial- 
vault  on  a  warm  summer's  day, — but  all 
around  the  mountains  retained  that  wonder- 
ful green  tone  which  we  see  in  some  old 
pictures,  and  which,  should  we  not  have  seer 
a  similar  play  of  color  in  the  South,  we  de- 
clare at  once  to  be  unnatural.  It  was  a 
glorious  prospect ;  but  the  stomach  was  emp- 
ty, the  body  tired  ;  all  that  the  heart  cared 
and  longed  for  was  good  night-quarters  ;  yet 
how  would  thev  be?     For  these  one  lo(>ked 


THE    BEST    THE    GALOSHES    GAVE.       71 

much  more  anxiously  than  for  the  charms 
of  nature,  which  every  where  were  so  pro- 
fusely displayed. 

The  road  led  through  an  olive-grove,  and 
here  the  solitary  inn  was  situated.  Ten  or 
twelve  crippled-beggars  had  encamped  out- 
side: The  healthiest  of  them  resembled,  to 
use  an  expression  of  Marryat's,  "  Hunger's 
eldest  son  when  he  had  come  of  age  ;"  the 
others  were  either  blind,  had  withered  legs 
and  crept  about  on  their  hands,  or  withered 
arms  and  fingerless  hands.  It  was  the  most 
wretched  misery,  dragged  from  among  the 
filthiest  rags.  "  Excellenza,  miserabili !"  sigh- 
ed they,  thrusting  forth  their  deformed  limbs 
to  view.  Even  the  hostess,  with  bare  feet, 
uncombed  hair,  and  dressed  in  a  garment  of 
doubtful  color,  received  the  guests  grumbling- 
ly.  The  doors  were  fastened  with  a  loop  of 
string ;  the  floor  of  the  rooms  presented  a 
stone  paving  half  torn  up ;  bats  fluttered 
wildly  about  the  ceiling ;  and  as  to  the  smell 
therein — no — that  was  beyond  description. 

''  You  had  better  lay  the  cloth  below  in 
Ihe  stable,"  said  one  of  the  travellers ;  "  there, 


72  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

at  all  events,  one  knows  what  one  is  breath 
ing." 

The  windows  Avere  quickly  opened,  to  let 
in  a  little  fresh  air.  Quicker,  however,  than 
the  breeze,  the  withered,  sallow  arms  of  the 
beggars  were  thrust  in,  accompanied  by  the 
eternal  whine  of  "  Miserabili,  miserabili,  ex- 
cellenza  !"  On  the  walls  were  displayed  in- 
numerable inscriptions,  written  in  nearly 
every  language  of  Europe,  some  in  verse, 
some  in  prose,  most  of  them  not  very  lauda- 
tory of  "  bella  Italia." 

The  meal  was  served.  It  consisted  of  a 
soup  of  salted  water,  seasoned  with  pepper 
and  rancid  oil.  The  last  ingredient  played 
a  very  prominent  part  in  the  salad  ;  stale 
eggs  and  roasted  cocks'-combs  furnished  the 
grand  dish  of  the  repast ;  the  wine  even  was 
not  without  a  disgusting  taste — it  was  like  a 
medicinal  draught. 

At  night  the  boxes  and  other  effects  of 
the  passengers  were  placed  against  the  rick- 
ctty  doors.  One  of  the  travelers  kept  watch 
while  the  others  slept.  The  sentry  was  oul 
young   Divine.     How   close   it  was   in    the 


THE  BEST  THE  GALOSHES  GAVE.   73 

chamber!  The  heat  oppressive  to  suffoca- 
cation — the  gnats  hummed  and  stung  un- 
ceasingly— the  "miserabiU"  without  whined 
and  moaned  in  their  sleep. 

"Travelling  would  be  agreeable  enough," 
said  he  groaning,  "  if  one  only  had  no  body, 
or  could  send  it  to  rest  while  the  spirit  went 
on  its  pilgrimage  unhindered,  whither  the 
voice  within  might  call  it.  Wherever  I  go, 
1  am  pursued  by  a  longing  that  is  insatiable. 
— that  I  cannot  explain  to  myself,  and  that 
tears  my  very  heart.  I  want  something  bet- 
ter than  what  is  but  momentar}^ — than  what 
is  fled  in  an  instant.  But  what  is  it,  and 
where  is  it  to  be  found  ?  Yet,  I  know  in 
reality  what  it  is  I  wish  for.  Oh !  most 
happy  were  I,  could  I  but  reach  one  aim, — 
could  but  reach  the  happiest  of  all !" 

And  as  he  spoke  the  woid  he  was  again 
in  his  home  j  the  long  white  curtains  hung 
down  from  the  windows,  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  stood  the  black  coflin ;  in  it  he 
lay  in  the  sleep  of  death.  His*  wish  was  ful- 
filled— the  body  rested,  while  the  spirit  went 
unhindered  on  its  pilgrimage,  "/jet  no  one 
deem  himself  happy  before  his  end,"  were 


r4  THE    SHOES    OF    FORTUNE. 

tlie  words  of  Solon ;  and  here  was  a  new 
and  brill. ant  proof  of  the  wisdom  of  the  old 
apothegm. 

Every  corpse  is  a  sphynx  of  immortality ; 
here  too  on  the  black  coffin  the  sphynx  gave 
us  no  answer  to  what  he  who  lay  within 
had  written  two  days  before  : 

"  O  mighty  Death  !  thy  silence  teaches  nought, 
Thou  leadest  only  to  the  near  grave's  brink  ; 
Is  broken  now  the  ladder  of  my  thoughts? 
Do  I  instead  of  mounting  only  sink  ? 

Our  heaviest  grief  the  world  oft  seeth  not, 
Our  sorest  pain  we  hide  from  stranger  eyes : 

And  for  the  sufferer  there  is  nothing  left 

But  the  green  mound  that  o'er  the  coffin  lies." 

Two  figures  were  moving  in  the  chamber. 
We  knew  them  both  ;  it  was  the  fairy  of 
Care,  and  the  emissary  of  Fortune.  They 
both  bent  over  the  corpse. 

"  Do  you  now  see,"  said  Care,  "  what  hap- 
pmess  3rour  Galoshes  have  brought  to  man- 
kind ?" 

"  To  him,  at  least,  who  slumbers  here, 
they  have  brought  an  imperishable  blessing," 
answered  the  other. 


THE    BEST    THE    GALObUE?    GAVE. 


5 


•'  Ah  no  !"  replied  Care,  "  he  took  his  de- 
parture himself;  he  was  not  called  away. 
His  mental  powers  here  below  were  not 
sirong  enough  to  Teach  the  treasures  l3'ing 
beyond  this  life,  and  which  his  destiny  or- 
dained he  should  obtain.  I  will  now  confer 
a  benefit  on  him." 

And  she  took  the  Galoshes  from  his  feet ; 
nis  sleep  of  death  was  ended ;  and  he  who 
had  been  thus  called  back  again  to  life  arose 
from  his  dread  couch  in  all  the  vigor  of  youth. 
Care  vanished,  and  with  her  the  Galoshes. 
She  has  no  doubt  taken  them  for  herself,  to 
keep  them  to  all  eternity. 


THE  FIR-TREE. 


UT  in  the  :voods 
stood  a  nice  little 
Fir-tree.  The  place 
he  had  was  a  very 
good  one :  the  sun 
shone  on  him :  as  to 
fresh  air,  there  was 
enough  of  that,  and  round 
him  grew  many  large-sized  comrades,  pines 
as  well  as  firs.  But  the  little  Fir  wanted  so 
very  much  to  be  a  grown  up  tree. 

He  did  not  think  of  the  warm  sun  and  of 
the  fresh  air  ;  he  did  not  care  for  the  little 
cottage  children  that  ran  about  and  prattled 
when  they  were  in  the  woods  looking  for 
wild-strawberries.  The  children  often  came 
76 


THE    FIR-TREE.  77 

With  a  whole  pitcher  full  of  berries,  or  a  long 
row  of  them  threaded  on  a  straw,  and  sat 
down  near  the  young  tree  and  said,  "  Oh, 
how  pretty  he  is  !  what  a  nice  little  fir  !" 
But  this  was  what  the  tree  could  not  bear  to 
liear. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  he  had  shot  up  a 
good  deal,  and  after  another  year  he  was  an- 
other long  bit  taller  ;  for  with  fir-trees  one  can 
always  tell  by  the  shoots  how  many  years 
old  they  are. 

"  Oh  !  were  I  but  such  a  high  tree  as  the 
others  are,"  sighed  he.  "  Then  I  should  be 
able  to  spread  out  my  branches,  and  with  the 
tops  to  look  into  the  wide  world !  Then 
would  the  birds  build  nests  among  my  bran- 
ches :  and  when  there  was  a  breeze,  I  could 
bend  with  as  much  stateliness  as  the  others  !" 

Neither  the  sunbeams,  nor  the  birds,  nor 
the  red  clouds  which  morning  and  evening 
sailed  above  him,  gave  the  little  tree  any 
pleasure. 

In  winter,  when  the  snow  lay  glittering 
on  the  ground,  a  hare  would  often  come 
leaping  along,  and  jump  right  over  the  little 
tree.     Oh,    that  made  him  so  angry  !     But 


78  .  THE    FIR-TREE. 

twc  Winters  were  past,  and,  in  the  third  the 
tree  was  so  large  that  the  hare  was  obhged 
to  go  round  it.  "  To  grow  and  grow,  to  get 
older  and  be  tall,"  thouglit  the  Tree, — "that, 
after  all,  is  the  most  delightful  thing  in  the 
world  !" 

In  autumn  the  w^ood-cutters  always  came 
and  felled  some  of  the  largest  trees.  This 
happened  every  year  ;  and  the  young  Fir- 
tree,  that  had  now  grown  to  a  very  comely 
size,  trembled  at  the  sight ;  for  the  magnifi- 
cent great  trees  fell  to  the  earth  with  noise 
and  cracking,  the  branches  were  lopped  off, 
and  the  trees  looked  long  and  bare  ;  they  were 
hardly  to  be  recognised  ;  and  then  they  were 
laid  in  carts,  and  the  horses  dragged  them 
out  of  the  w^ood. 

Where  did  they  go  to  ?  What  became  of 
tliem  ? 

In  spring,  wheiL  the  swallows  and  the 
storks  came,  the  Tree  asked  them,  "Don't 
you  know  where  they  have  been  taken  1 
Have  you  not  met  them  any  where  ?" 

The  swallows  did  not  know  any  thing 
about  it ;  but  the  Stork  looked  musing,  nod- 
ded his  head,   and  said,  "  Yes  ;    I  think  I 


THE    FIR-TREE.  79 

Know  ;  I  met  many  ships  as  I  was  flying 
hither  from  Egypt ;  on  the  ships  were  mag- 
nificent masts,  and  I  venture  to  assert  that  it 
wad  they  that  smelt  so  of  fir.  I  may  con- 
gratulate you,  for  they  lifted  themselves  on 
high  most  majestically !"' 

"  Oh,  were  I  but  old  enough  to  fly  across 
the  sea !  But  how  does  the  sea  look  in  real- 
ity ?     What  is  it  like  P' 

"  That  would  take  a  long  time  to  explain," 
said  the  Stork,  and  with  these  words  off  he 
went. 

"Rejoice  in  thy  growth!"  said  the  Sun- 
beams, "  rejoice  in  thy  vigorous  growth,  and 
in  the  fresh  life  that  moveth  within  thee !" 

And  the  Wind  kissed  the  Tree,  and  the 
Dew  wept  tears  over  him  :  but  the  Fir  under- 
stood it  not. 

When  Christmas  came,  quite  young  trees 
were  cut  down  :  trees  which  often  were  not 
even  as  large  or  of  the  same  age  as  this  Fir- 
tree.  Avho  could  never  rest,  but  always  want- 
ed to  be  off.  These  young  trees,  and  they 
were  always  the  finest  looking,  retained  their 
branches ;  they  were  laid  on  carts,  and  the 
horses  drew  them  out  of  the  wood. 


80  THE    FIR-TREE. 

''Where  are  they  going  to?"  askeJ  the  Pir 
"  They  are  not  taller  than  I ;  there  was  one 
indeed  that  was  considerably  shorter ;  and 
why  do  they  retain  all  their  branches  ? 
Whither  are  they  taken  ?" 

"  We  know  !  we  know  !"  chirped  the  Spar- 
rows. "  We  have  peeped  in  at  the  windows 
in  the  town  below  !  We  know  whither  they 
are  taken  !  The  greatest  splendor  and  the 
greatest  magnificence  one  can  imagine  await 
them.  We  peeped  through  the  windows,  and 
saw  them  planted  in  the  middle  of  the  warm 
room  aad  ornamented  with  the  most  splendid 
things,  with  gilded  apples,  with  gingerbread, 
with  toys,  and  many  hundred  lights  !" 

"  And  then?"  asked  the  Fir-tree,  trembhng 
in  every  bough.  "And  then?  What  hap- 
pens then  ?'' 

"  We  did  not  see  any  thing  more  :  it  was 
incomparably  beautiful." 

"I  would  fain  know  if  I  am  destined  for 
so  glorious  a  career,"  cried  the  Tree,  rejoic 
ing.  "  That  is  still  better  than  to  cross  the 
sea  !  What  a  longing  do  I  suffer  !  Were 
Christmas  but  come  !  I  am  now  tall,  and 
my  branches  spread  like  the  uUicrs  that  were 


i  ^-tivg 


THE    FIR-TREE.  81 


carried  off  last  year  !  Oh  !  were  I  but  al- 
ready on  the  cart !  Were  I  in  the  warm 
room  with  all  the  splendor  and  magnificence ! 
Yes  ;  then  something  better,  something  still 
grander,  will  surely  follow,  or  wherefore 
should  they  thus  ornament  me  ?  Something 
better,  something  still  grander  must  follow — 
but  what  ?  Oh,  how  I  long,  how  I  suffer ! 
I  do  not  know  myself  what  is  the  matter  with 
me!" 

"  Rejoice  in  our  presence !"  said  the  Air 
and  the  Sunlight ;  "  rejoice  in  thy  own  fresh 
youth  !" 

But  the  Tree  did  not  rejoice  at  all;  he 
grew  and  grew,  and  was  green  both  winter 
and  summer.  People  that  saw  him  said, 
"  What  a  fine  tree  !"  and  towards  Christmas 
he  was  one  of  the  first  that  was  cut  down. 
The  axe  struck  deep  into  the  very  pith  ;  the 
tree  fell  to  the  earth  with  a  sigh  ;  he  felt  a 
pang — it  was  like  a  swoon  ;  he  could  not 
think  of  happiness,  for  he  was  sorrowful  at 
being  separated  from  his  home,  from  the 
place  where  he  had  sprung  up.  He  well 
knew  that  he  should  never  see  his  dear  old 
comrades,  the  little  bushes  and  flowers  around 


82  THE    FIR-TREE. 

him,  any  more  ;  perhaps  not  even  the  birds  ! 
The  departure  was  not  at  all  agreeable. 

The  Tree  only  came  to  himself  when  he 
was  unloaded  in  a  court-yard  with  the  other 
trees,  and  heard  a  man  say,  "  That  one  is 
splendid  !  we  don't  want  the  others."  Then 
two  servants  came  in  rich  livery  and  carried 
the  fir-tree  into  a  large  and  splendid  drawing- 
room.  Portraits  were  hanging  on  the  walls, 
and  near  the  white  porcelain  stove  stood  two 
large  Chinese  vases  with  lions  on  the  covers. 
There,  too,  were  large  easy-chairs,  silken  so- 
fas, large  tables  full  of  picture-books  and  full 
of  toys,  worth  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
crowns — at  least  the  children  said  so.  And 
the  Fir-tree  was  stuck  upright  in  a  cask  that 
was  filled  with  sand  ;  but  no  one  could  see 
that  it  was  a  cask,  for  green  cloth  was  hung 
all  round  it,  and  it  stood  on  a  large  gaily- 
colored  carpet.  Oh  !  how  the  tree  quivered  ! 
What  was  to  happen  ?  The  servants,  as 
well  as  the  young  ladies,  decorated  it.  On  one 
branch  there  hung  little  nets  cut  out  of  coloi;- 
ed  paper,  and  each  net  was  filled  with  sugar- 
plums ;  and  among  the  other  boughs  gilded 
apples  and  walnuts  were  suspended,  looking 


THE    FIR-TREE.  83 

as  though  they  had  grown  there,  and  Httle 
blue  and  white  tapers  were  placed  among 
the  leaves.  Dolls  that  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  men — the  Tree  had  never  beheld 
such  before — were  seen  among  the  foliage, 
and  at  the  very  top  a  large  star  of  gold  tinsel 
was  fixed.  It  was  really  splendid — beyond 
description  splendid. 

"  This  evening  !"  said  they  all,  "  how  it 
will  shine  this  evening  !" 

"  Oh  r'  thought  the  Tree,  "  if  the  evening 
were  but  come  !  If  the  tapers  were  but 
lighted  !  And  then  I  wonder  what  will  hap- 
pen !  Perhaps  the  other  trees  from  the  forest 
will  come  to  look  at  me  !  Perhaps  the  spar 
rows  will  beat  against  the  window-panes  !  1 
wonder  if  I  shall  take  root  here,  and  winter 
and  summer  stand  covered  with  ornaments  !" 

He  knew  very  much  about  the  matter  !— 
but  he  was  so  impatient  that  for  sheer  long- 
ing he  got  a  pain  in  his  back,  and  this  with 
trees  is  the  same  thing  as  a  headache  with  us. 

The  candles  were  now  lighted — What 
brightness  !  What  splendor  !  The  Tree 
trembled  so  in  every  bough  that  one  of  the 


84  THE    FIR-TREE. 

tapers  set  fire  to  the  foliage.  It  blazed  up 
famously. 

•'  Help  !  help  !"  cried  the  young  ladies,  and 
/hey  quickly  put  out  the  fire. 

Now  the  tree  did  not  even  dare  tremble. 
What  a  state  he  was  in  !  He  was  so  uneasy 
lest  he  should  lose  something  of  his  splendor, 
that  he  was  quite  bewildered  amidst  the 
glare  and  brightness ;  when  suddenly,  both 
folding-doors  opened  and  a  troop  of  children 
rushed  in  as  if  they  would  upset  the  Tree. 
The  older  persons  followed  quietly  ;  the  little 
ones  stood  quite  still.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
moment ;  then  they  shouted  that  the  Whole 
place  re-echoed  with  their,  rejoicing;  they 
danced  round  the  Tree,  and  one  present  after 
the  other  was  pulled  off. 

"What  are  they  about?"  thought  the 
Tree,  r'  What  is  to  happen  now  I'y  And 
the  lights  burned  down  to  the  very  branches, 
and  as  they  burned  down  they  were  put  out 
one  after  the  other,  and  then  the  children  had 
permission  to  plunder  the  Tree.  So  they  fell 
upon  it  with  such  violence  that  all  its  branches 
cracked ;  if  it  had  not  been  fixed  firmly  in 


THE    FIR-TREE  85 

the  ground,  it  would  certainly  have  tumbled 
down. 

The  children  danced  about  with  their '^^ 
beautiful  play-things ;  no  one  looked  at  the 
Tree  except  the  old  nurse,  who  peeped  be- 
tween the  branches ;  but  it  was  only  to  see 
if  there  was  a  fig  or  an  apple  left  that  had 
been  forgotten. 

"A  story!  a  story!"  cried  the  children, 
drawing  a  little  fat  man  towards  tlie  Tree. 
He  seated  himself  under  it  and  said,  "  Now 
we  are  in  the  sliade,  and  the  Tree  can  listen 
too.  But  I  shall  tell  only  one  story.  Now 
w^hich  will  you  have  ;  that  about  Ivedy-Ave- 
dy,  or  about  Humpy-Dumpy,  who  tumbled 
down  stairs,  and  yet  after  all  came  to  the 
throne  and  married  the  princess  ?•' 

"  Ivedy-Avedy,"  cried  some;  "Humpy- 
Dumpy,"  cried  the  others.  There  was  such  a 
bawliag  and  screaming  ! — the  Fir-tree  alone 
was  silent,  and  he  thought  to  himself, 
"  Am  I  not_to  bawl  with  the  rest? — am  I  to 
do  nothing  whatever  ?"  for  he  was  one  of  the 
company,  and  had  done  what  he  had  to  do. 

And  the  man  told  about  Humpy-Dumpy 
that    tumbled    down,  who    notwithstanding 


86  THE    FIR-TREE. 

came  to  the  throne,  and  at  last  married  the 
princess.  And  the  children  clapped  their 
hands,  and  cried.  "  Oh,  go  on  !  Do  go  on  !'' 
They  wanted  to  hear  about  Ivedy-Avedy  too, 
but  the  little  man  only  told  them  about  Hum- 
py-Dumpy. The  Fir-tree  stood  quite  still 
and  absorbed  in  thought ;  the  birds  in  the 
jvood  had  never  related  the  like  of  this. 
/^ "  Humpy-Dumpy  fell  down  stairs,  and  yet 
^  he  married  the  princess  !  Yes,  yes !  that's 
the  way  of  the  world  !"  thought  the  Fir-tree, 
and  believed  it  all,  because  the  man  who  told 
the  story  was  so  good-looking.  "  Well,  well ! 
who  knows,  perJi*4is,_L2iiay  falldown  stairs, 
too,  and  get  a  princess  j;S_jvife  !  And  he 
""looked  forward  with  joy  to  the  morrow,  when 
he  hoped  to  be  decked  out  again  with  lights, 
playthings,  fruits,  and  tinsel. 

"  I  won't  tremble  to-morrow  !"  thought  the 
Fir-tree.  "  1  will  enjoy  to  the  full  all  my 
splendor  !  To  morrow  I  shall  hear  again  the 
story  of  HTmTpy-TTumpy,  and  perhaps  that  of 
Ivedy-Avedy  too."  And  the  whole  night  the 
Tree  stood  still  and  in  deep  thought. 

In  the  morning  the  servant  and  the  house* 
maid  came  in. 


W    _>v>  'I 


THE    FIR-TREE.  87 

"  Now  then  the  splendor  will  begin  again," 
thought  the  Fir.  But  they  dragged  him  out 
of  the  room,  and  up  the  stairs  into  the  loft : 
and  here,  in  a  dark  corner,  where  no  daylight 
could  enter,  they  left  him.  "What's  the 
meaning  of  this  ?"  thought  the  Tree.  "  What 
am  I  to  do  here  ?  What  shall  I  hear  now,  I 
wonder  ?"  And  he  leaned  against  the  wall 
lost  in  reverie.  Time  enough  had  he  too  for 
his  reflections ;  for  days  and  nights  passed 
on,  and  nobody  came  up  ;  and  when  at  last 
somebody  did  come,  it  was  only  to  put  some 
great  trunks  in  a  corner,  out  of  the  way. 
There  stood  the  Tree  quite  hidden  ;  it  seem- 
ed as  if  he  had  been  entirely  forgotten. 

"  'T  is  now  winter  out  of  doors  !"  thought 
the  Tree.     "  The  earth  is  hard  and  covered 


o— -^ 


with  snow ;  men  cannot  plant  me  now,  and  j 
therefore  I  have  been  put  up  here  under  shelter/ 
till  the  spring-time  comes!  How  thought- 
ful  that  is  !  How  kind  man  is,  after  all !  If 
it  only  were  not  so  dark  here,  and  so  terribly 
lonely  !  Not  even  a  hare  ! — And  out  in  the 
woods  it  was  so  pleasant ^^when  the  snow  waa 
on  the  ground,  and  the  hare  leapedjby  ;  yes 
— even  when  he  jumped  over  me ;  but  I  did 


88  THE    FIR-TREE. 

not  like  it  then  !     It  is  really  terribly  lonely 
here !" 

"  Squeak  !  squeak  !*'  said  a  little  Mouse,  at 
the  same  moment,  peeping  out  of  his  hole. 
And  then  another  little  one  came.  They 
snuffed  about  the  Fir-tree,  and  rustled  among 
the  branches. 

"It  is  dreadfully  cold,"  said  the  Mouse. 
'^  "But  for  that,  it  would Ibe  delightful  here, 
[\  old  Fir,  wouldn't  it  ?"  i' 
\  :  "  I  am  by  no  means  old,"  said  the  Fir-tree. 
"  There's  many  a  one  considerably  older  than 
I  am." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from,"  asked  the 
Mice  ;  "  and  what  can  you  do  ?"  They  were 
so  extremely  curious.  "Tell  us  about  the 
most  beautiful  spot  on  the  earth.  Have  you 
never  been  there  ?  Were  you  never  in  the 
larder,  where  cheeses  lie  on  the  shelves,  and 
hams  hang  from  above  ;  where  one  dances 
about  on  tallow  candles  :  that  place  where 
one  enters  lean,  and  comes  out  again  fat  and 
portly?" 

"  I  know  no  such  place,"  said  the  Tree. 
"  But  I  know  the  wood,  where  the  sun  shinea 
and  where  the  little  birds  sing."     And  then 


THE    FIR-TREE.  89 

he  told  all  about  his  youth ;  and  the  little 
Mice  had  never  heard  the  like  before ;  and 
they  listened  and  said, 

'•'  Well,  to  be  sure  !  How  much  you  have 
seen  !     How  happy  you  must  have  been  !" 

"  I !"  said  the  Fir-tree,  thinking  over  what 
he  had  himself  related.  "  Yes,  in  reality 
those  were  happy  times."  And  then  he  told 
about  Christmas-eve,  when  he  was  decked 
out  with  cakes  and  candles. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  little  Mice,  "  how  fortunate 
you  have  been,  old  Fir-tree  !" 

^'- 1  am  by  no  means  old,"  said  he.  "  I  came 
from  the  wood  this  winter ;  I  am  in  my 
prime,  and  am  only  rather  short  for  my  age." 

"  What  delightful  stories  you  know  !"  said 
the  Mice :  and  the  next  night  they  came  with 
four  other  little  Mice,  who  were  to  hear  what 
the  Tree  recounted  :  and  the  more  he  related", 
the  more  he  remembered  himself;  and  it  ap- 
peared as  if  those  times  had  really  been  hap-^ 
py  times.  "  But  they  may  still  come — they 
maj_still  come  !  Humpy^umpy  felFHown 
stairs,  and  yet  he  got  a  "prmcessT^and  he 
thought  atTEelhoment  of  a~nice  little  Birch 


90  THE    FIR-TRRE. 

tree  growing  out  in  the  Avoods :  to  the  Fir, 
that  would  be  a  real  charming  princess. 

"  Who    is   Humpy-Dumpy  ?"    asked    the 

Mice.     So  then   the  Fir-tree  told  the  whole 

fairy  tale,  for  he  could  remember  every  single 

word  of  it;  and  the  little  Mice  jumped  for 

joy  up  to   the  very  top   of  the  Tree.     Next 

/  night  two  more  Mice  came,  and  on  Sunday 

'    two  Rats  even  ;  but  they  said  the  stories  were 

not  interesting,  whicli  vexed  the  little  Mice  ; 

and  they,  too,  now  began  to  think  them  not 

I    so  very  amusing  either. 

"  Do  you  know  only  one  story  ?"  asked  the 
Rats, 

"Only  that  one,"  answered  the  Tree.  "I 
heard  it  on  my  happiegt_  evening  ;  but  I  did 
not  then  knowJhj^^^iia^p^Ll-was," 

"  It  is  a  very  stupid  story  !  Don't  you 
know  one  about  bacon  and  tallow  candles  ? 
Can't  you  tell  any  larder  stories  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  Tree. 

"  Then  good-bye,"  said  the  Rats  ;  and  they 
tvent  home. 

"  At  last  the  little  Mice  stayed  away  also ; 
and  the  Tree  sighed:  "After  all,  it  was  very 


THE    FIR-TREE.  91 

pleasant  when  the  sleek  httle  Mice  sat  round 
me,  and  Hstened  to  what  I  told  them.  Now 
that  too  is  over.  But  I  will  take  good  care 
to  enjoy  myself  when  I  am  brought  out 
again." 

But  when  was  that  to  be  ?  Why,  one 
morning  there  came  a  quantity  of  people  and 
set  to  work  in  the  loft.  The  trunks  were 
moved,  the  tree  was  pulled  out  and  thrown, 
— rather  hard,  it  is  true, — down  on  the  floor, 
but  a  man  drew  him  towards  the  stairs, 
where  the  daylight  shone. 

"  Now  a  merry  life  will  begin  again," 
thought  the  Tree.  He  felt"the  fresF  air,  the 
first  sunbeam, — and  now  he  was  out  in  the 
court-yard.  All  passed  so  quickly,  there  was 
so  much  ffoing  on  around  him,  the  Tree 
quite  forgot  to  look  to  himself.  The  court 
adjoined  a  garden,  and  all  was  in  flower  ; 
the  roses  hung  so  fresh  and  odorous  over  the 
balustrade,  the  lindens  were  in  blossom,  the 
Swallows  flew  by,  and  said,  "  Q.uirre-vit !  my 
husband  is  come !"  but  it  was  not  the  Fir- 
tree  that  they  meant. 

"  Now,  then,  I  shall  really  enjoy  life,"  said 
tie  exultingly,  and  spread  out  his  branches  ,* 


92  THE    FIR-TREE. 

but,  alas  !  they  were  all  withered  and  yellow. 
It  was  in  a  corner  that  he  lay,  among  weeds 
and  nettles.  The  golden  star  of  tinsel  was 
still  on  the  top  of  the  Tree,  and  glittered  in 
the  sunshine. 

In  the  court-yard  some  of  the  merry  chil- 
dren were  playing  who  had  danced  at  Christ- 
mas round  the  Fir-tree,  and  were  so  glad  at 
the  sight  of  him.  One  of  the  youngest  ran 
V    and  tore  off  the  golden  star. 

"  Only  look  what  is  still  on  the  ugly  old 
Christmas  tree  !"  said  he,  trampling  on  the 
branches,  so  that  they  all  cracked  beneath 
his  feet. 

And  the  Tree  beheld  all  the  beaut}^  of  the 
flowers,  and  the  freshness  in  the  garden  ;  he 
beheld  himself,  and  wished  he  had  remained 
in  his  dark  corner  in  the  loft ;  he  thought. of 
his  first  youth  in  the  wood,  of  the  merry 
Christmas-eve,  and  of  the  little  Mice  who  had 
listened  with  so  much  pleasure  to  the  story 
of  Humpy-Dumpy. 

"  'T  is  over — 't  is  past !"  said  the  poor  Tree. 
"  Had  I  but  rejoiced  when  I  had  reason  to  do 
Bo  !     But  now  't  is  past,  't  is  past !" 

And  the  gardener's  boy  chopped  the  Trea 


THE    FIR-TREE.  93 

into  small  pieces  ;  there  was  a  whole  heap 
lying  there.  The  wood  flamed  up  splendidly 
under  the  large  brewing  copper,  and  it  sighed 
so  deeply  !     Each  sigh  was  like  a  shot. 

The  boys  played  about  in  the  court,  and 
the  youngest  wore  the  gold  star  on  his  breast 
which  the  Tree  had  had  on  the  happiest  even- 
ing of  his  life.  However,  that  was  over  now. 
— the  Tree  gone,  the  story  at  an  end.  All 
all  was  over ; — every  tale  must  end  at  last 

y 


THE  SNOW  QUEEN. 


FIRST    STORY, 

VTHICH  TREATS  OF  A  MIRROR  AND  OF  THE  SPLINT3R& 


OW  then,  let  us  begin.  When 
we  are  at  the  end  of  the  story, 
we  shall  know  more  than  we 
r  know  now  :  but  to  begin. 
Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  wicked 
sprite,  indeed  he  was  the  most  mischievous 
of  all  sprites.  One  day  he  was  in  a  very  good 
humor,  for  he  had  made  a  mirror  with  the 
power  of  causing  all  that  was  good  and 
beautiful  when  it  was  reflected  therein,  to 
look  poor  and  mean;  but  that  which  was 
good  for  nothing  and  looked  ugly  was  shown 
magnified  and  increased  in  ugliness.  In  this 
94 


THE    MIRROR    AND    SPLINTERS.  95 

mirror  the  most  beautiful  landscapes  looked 
like  boiled  spinach,  and  the  best  persons 
were  turned  into  frights,  or  appeared  to  stand 
on  their  heads ;  their  faces  were  so  distorted 
that  they  were  not  to  be  recognised ;  and  if 
any  one  had  a  mole,  you  might  be  sure  that 
it  would  be  magnified  and  spread  over  both 
nose  and  mouth.  "That's  glorious  fun!" 
said  the  sprite.  If  a  good  thought  passed 
through  a  man's  mind,  then  a  grin  was  seen 
in  the  mirror,  and  the  sprite  lauglied  heartily 
at  his  clever  discovery.  All  the  little  sprites 
who  went  to  his  school — for  he  kept  a  sprite 
school — told  each  other  that  a  miracle  had 
happened  ;  and  that  now  only,  as  they 
thought,  it  would  be  possible  to  see  hoW' 
the  world  really  looked.  They  ran  about 
with  the  mirror  ;  and  at  last  there  was  not  a 
land  or  a  person  who  was  not  represented 
distorted  in  the  mirror.  So  then  they  thought 
they  would  fly  up  to  the  sky,  and  have  a  joke 
there.  The  higlier  they  flew  with  the  mirror, 
the  more  terribly  it  grinned :  they  could 
hardly  hold  it  fast.  Higher  and  higher  still 
they  flew,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  stars, 
when  suddenly  the  mirror  shook  so  terribly 


96  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

with  grinning,  that  it  flew  out  of  their  hands 
and  fell  to  the  earth,  where  it  was  dashed  in 
a  hundred  million  and  more  pieces.  And 
now  it  worked  much  more  evil  than  before ; 
for  some  of  these  pieces  were  hardly  so  large 
as  a  grain  of  sand,  and  they  flew  about  in 
the  wide  world,  and  when  they  got  into  peo- 
ple's eyes,  there  they  stayed  ;  and  then  peo- 
ple saw  everything  perverted,  or  only  had  an 
eye  for  that  which  was  evil.  This  happened 
because  the  very  smallest  bit  had  the  same 
power  which  the  whole  mirror  had  possessed. 
Some  persons  even  got  a  splinter  in  their 
heart,  and  then  it  made  one  shudder,  for 
their  heart  became  like  a  lump  of  ice.  Some 
of  the  broken  pieces  were  so  large  that  they 
were  used  for  window-panes,  through  which 
one  could  not  see  one's  friends.  Other  pieces 
were  put  in  spectacles ;  and  that  was  a 
sad  affair  when  people  put  on  their  glasses  to 
see  well  and  rightly.  Then  the  wicked 
sprite  laughed  till  he  almost  choked,  for  all 
this  tickled  his  fancy.  The  fine  splinters 
still  flew  about  in  the  air :  and  now  we  shall 
hear  what  happened  next. 


A.    LITTLE    BOY    AND    A    LITTLE    GIRL.  97 


SECOND    STORY. 

A    LITTLE    BOY    AND    A    LITTLE    GIRL. 

In  a  large  town,  where  there  are  so  many- 
houses,  and  so  many  people,  that  there  is  no 
roof  left  for  every  body  to  have  a  little  gar- 
den ;  and  where,  on  this  accoimt,  most  per- 
sons are  obliged  to  content  themselves  with 
flowers  in  pots ;  there  lived  two  little  children, 
who  had  a  garden  somewhat  larger  than  a 
flower-pot.  They  were  not  brother  and  sis- 
ter ;  but  they  cared  for  each  other  as  much 
as  if  they  were.  Their  parents  lived  exactly 
opposite.  They  inhabited  two  garrets ;  and 
where  the  roof  of  the  one  house  joined  that 
of  the  other,  and  the  gutter  ran  along  the 
extreme  end  of  it,  there  was  to  each  house  a 
small  window :  one  needed  only  to  step  over 
the  gutter  to  get  from  one  window  to  the 
other. 

The  children's  parents  had  large  wooden 
boxes  there,  in  which  vegetables  for  the 
kitchen  were  planted,  and  little  rose-trees  be- 
sides :  there  was  a  rose  in  each  box,  and  they 
7 


98  THE    SNOW-Q-IJEEN. 

g^iew  splendidly.  They  now  thought  of 
placing  the  boxes  across  the  gutter,  so  that 
Uiey  nearly  reached  from  one  window  to  the 
^.her,  and  looked  just  like  two  walls  of  tlow- 
trs.  The  tendrils  of  the  peas  hung  dow^n 
over  the  boxes ;  and  the  rose-trees  shot  up 
long  branches,  twined  round  the  windows, 
and  then  bent  towards  each  other  :  it  was 
almost  like  a  triumphant  arch  of  foliage  and 
flowers.  The  boxes  were  very  high,  and  the 
children  knew  that  they  must  not  creep  over 
til  em  ;  so  they  often  obtained  permission  to 
get  out  of  the  windows  to  each  other,  and  to 
sit  on  their  little  stools  among  the  roses, 
where  they  could  play  delightfully.  In  win- 
ter there  was  an  end  of  this  pleasure.  The 
wnndows  were  often  frozen  over ;  but  then 
they  heated  copper  farthings  on  the  stove, 
and  laid  the  hot  farthing  on  the  wdndow- 
pane,  and  then  they  had  a  capital  peep-hole, 
quite  nicely  rounded  ;  and  out  of  each  peep- 
ed a  gentle  friendly  eye — it  was  the  little  boy 
and  the  little  girl  \vho  were  looking  out. 
His  name  was  Kay,  hers  was  Gerda.  In 
summer,  with  one  jump,  they  could  get  to 
each  other  ;  but  in  winter  they  were  obliged 


A  LITTLE  BOY  AND  A  LITTLE  GIRL.     99 

first  to  go  down  the  long  stairs,  and  then  up 
the  ( ong  stall's  again :  and  out  of  doors  there 
was  quite  a  snow-storm. 

"  It  is  the  white  bees  that  are  swarming," 
Baid  Kay's  old  grandmother. 

"  Do  the  white  bees  choose  a  queen  ?"  ask- 
ed the  little  boy  ;  for  he  knew  that  the  ho- 
ney-bees always  have  one, 

"  Yes,"  said  the  grandmother,  "  she  flies 
where  the  swarm  hangs  in  the  thickest  clus- 
ters. She  is  the  largest  of  all ;  and  she  can 
never  remain  quietly  on  the  earth,  but  goes 
up  again  into  the  black  clouds.  Many  a 
winter's  night  she  flies  through  the  streets  of 
the  town;  and  peeps  in  at  the  windows  ;  and 
they  then  freeze  in  so  wondrous  a  manner 
that  they  look  like  flowers." 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  it,"  said  both  the  chil- 
dren ;  and  so  they  knew  that  it  was  true. 

"  Can  the  Snow  Queen  come  in  ?"  said  the 
little  girl. 

"  Only  let  her  come  in  !"  said  the  little  boy, 
"  then  I'd  put  her  on  the  stove,  and  she'd 
melt." 

And  then  his  grandmother  patted  his  head 
and  told  him  other  stories. 


100  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

In  the  evening,  when  little  Kay  was  at 
home,  and  half  undressed,  he  climbed  up  on 
the  chair  by  the  window,  and  peeped  out  of 
the  little  hole.  A  few  snow-flakes  were  fall- 
ing, and  one,  the  largest  of  all,  remained  ly- 
ing on  the  edge  of  a  flower-pot.  The  flake 
of  snow  grew  larger  and  larger ;  and  at  last 
it  was  like  a  young  lady,  dressed  in  the  finest 
white  gauze,  made  of  a  million  little  flakes 
like  stars.  She  was  so  beautiful  and  delicate, 
but  she  was  of  ice,  of  dazzling,  sparkling  ice  ; 
yet  she  lived  ;  her  eyes  gazed  fixedty,  like 
two  stars ;  but  there  was  neither  quiet  or  re- 
pose in  them.  She  nodded  towards  the  win- 
dow, and  beckoned  with  her  hand.  The 
little  boy  Avas  frightened,  and  jumped  down 
from  the  chair ;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if,  at 
the  same  moment,  a  large  bird  flew  past  the 
window. 

The  next  day  it  v/as  a  sharp  frost : — and 
then  the  spring  came ;  the  sun  shone,  the 
green  leaves  appeared,  the  swallows  built 
their  nests,  the  windows  were  opened,  and 
the  little  children  again  sat  in  their  pretty 
garden,  high  up  on  the  leads  at  the  top  of 
the  house. 


A  hITTLE   BOY  AND  A  LITTLE  GIRL.   lOl 

That  summer  the  roses  flowered  in  un- 
wonted beauty.  The  Httle  girl  had  learned 
a  hymn,  in  which  there  was  something  about 
roses ;  and  then  she  thought  of  her  own 
flowers  ;  and  she  sang  the  verse  to  the  little 
boy,  who  then  sang  it  with  her : 

"  The  rose  iii  the  valley  is  blooming  so  sweet, 
And  angels  descend  there  the  children  to  greet." 

And  the  children  held  each  other  by  the 
hand,  kissed  the  roses,  looked  up  at  the  clear 
sunshine,  and  spoke  as  though  they  really 
saw  angels  there.  What  lovely  summer-days 
those  were  !  How  delightful  to  be  out  in  the 
air,  near  the  fresh  rose-bushes,  that  seem  as 
if  they  would  never  finish  blossoming  ! 

Kay  and  Gerda  looked  at  the  picture-book 
full  of  beasts  and  of  birds  ;  and  it  was  then — 
the  clock  in  the  church-tower  was  just  stri- 
king five, — that  Kay  said,  "  Oh  !  I  feel  such 
a  sharp  pain  in  my  heart;  and  now  some- 
thing has  got  into  my  eye  !" 

The  little  girl  put  her  arms  around  hig 
neck.  He  winked  his  eyes  ;  now  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen. 

"  I  think  it  is  out  now,"  said  he ;  but  it 


102  THE    SNOW-QUEEN. 

was  not.  It  was  just  one  of  those  pieces  of 
glass  from  the  magic  mirror  that  had.gpt  into 
his  eye  ;  and  poor  Kay  had  got  another  piece 
right  in  his  heart.  It  will  soon  become  like 
ice.  It  did  not  hurt  any  longer,  but  there  it 
was. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ?"  asked  he. 
"  You  look  so  ugly !  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  me.  Ah,"  said  he  at  once, 
"that  rose  is  cankered  !  and  look,  this  one  is 
quite  crooked !  after  all,  these  roses  are  very 
ugly  !  they  are  just  like  the  box  they  are 
planted  in  !"  And  then  he  gave  the  box  a 
good  kick  with  his  foot,  and  pulled  both  the 
roses  up. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  cried  the  little 
girl ;  and  as  he  perceived  her  fright,  he  pull- 
ed  up  another  rose,  got  in  at  the  window, 
and  hastened  off  from  dear  little  Gerda. 

Afterwards,  when  she  brought  her  picture- 
book,  he  asked,  "  What  horrid  beasts  she  had 
there  ?"  And  if  his  grandmother  told  them 
stories,  he  always  interrupted  her ;  besides, 
if  he  could  manage  it,  he  would  get  behind 
her,  put  on  her  spectacles,  and  imitate  her 
way  of  speaking ;    he  copied  all  her  ways, 


A  LITTLE  BOY  AND  A  LITTLE  GIRL.     iU'J 

and  then  every  body  laughed  at  him.  He 
was  soon  able  to  imitate  the  gait  and  man- 
ner of  every  one  in  the  street.  Every  tiling 
that  was  pecuHar  and  displeasing  in  them, — 
that  Kay  knew  how  to  imitate  :  and  at  such 
times  all  the  people  said,  "  The  boy  is  cer- 
tainly very  clever  !"  But  it  was  the  glass  he 
had  got  in  his  eye ;  the  glass  that  was  stick- 
ing in  his  heart,  which  made  him  tease  even 
little  Gerda,  whose  whole  soul  was  devoted 
to  him. 

His  games  now  were  quite  different  to 
what  they  had  formerly  been,  they  were  so 
very  knowing.  One  winter's  day,  when  the 
flakes  of  snow  were  flying  about,  he  spread 
the  skirts  of  his  blue  coat,  and  caught  the 
snow  as  it  fell. 

"  Look  through  this  glass,  Gei  da,"  said  he. 
And  every  flake  seemed  larger,  and  appeared 
like  a  magnificent  flower,  or  a  beautiful  star ; 
it  was  sj^endid  to  look  at ! 

'•  Look,  how  clever  !"  said  Kay.  "  That's 
much  more  interesting  than  real  flowers  ! 
They  are  as  exact  as  possible  ;  there  is  not 
a  fault  in  them,  if  they  did  not  melt !" 

It  was  not  long  after  this,  that  Kay  came 


IU4  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

one  day  with  large  gloves  on,  and  his  httle 
sledge  at  his  back,  and  bawled  right  into 
Geida's  ears,  "  I  have  permission  to  go  out 
into  the  square,  where  the  others  are  play- 
ing ;"  and  off  he  was  in  a  moment. 

There,  in  the  market-place,  some  of  the 
boldest  of  the  boys  used  to  tie  their  sledges 
to  the  carts  as  they  passed  by,  and  so  they 
were  pulled  along,  and  got  a  good  ride.  It 
was  so  capital  !  Just  as  they  were  in  the 
very  height  of  their  amusement,  a  large 
sledge  passed  by  :  it  was  painted  quite  white, 
and  there  was  some  one  in  it  wrapped  up  in 
a  rough  white  mantle  of  fur,  with  a  rough 
white  fur  cap  on  his  head.  The  sledge  drove 
round  the  square  twice,  and  Kay  tied  on  his  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  off  he  drove  with  it. 
On  they  went  quicker  and  quicker  into  the 
next  street ;  and  the  person  who  drove  turn- 
ed round  to  Kay,  and  nodded  to  him  in  a 
friendly  manner,  just  as  if  they  knew  each 
other.  Every  time  he  was  going  to  untie  his 
sledge,  the  person  nodded  to  him,  and  then 
Kay  sat  quiet ;  and  so  on  they  went  till  they 
came  outside  the  gates  of  the  town.  Then 
the  snow  began  to  fall  so  thickly   that  the 


A   LITTLE  BOY  AND  A  LITTLE  GIRL.    I(l5 

lutle  boy  could  not  see  an  arm's  length  before 
him,  but  still  on  he  went:  when  suddenly 
he  let  go  the  string  he  held  in  his  hand  in 
order  to  get  loose  from  the  sledge,  but  it  was 
of  no  use  ;  still  the  little  vehicle  rushed  on 
with  the  quickness  of  the  wind.  He  then 
cried  as  loud  as  he  could,  but  no  one  heard 
him  ;  the  snow  drifted  and  the  sledge  flew 
on,  and  sometimes  it  gave  a  jerk  as  though 
they  were  driving  over  hedges  and  ditches. 
He  was  quite  frightened,  and  he  tried  to 
repeat  the  Lord's  prayer  ;  but  all  he  could 
do,  he  was  only  able  to  remember  the  multi- 
plication table. 

The  snow-flakes  grew  larger  and  larger, 
till  at  last  they  looked  just  like  great  white 
fowls.  Suddenly  they  flew  on  one  side  ;  the 
large  sledge  stopped,  and  the  person  who 
drove  rose  up.  It  was  a  lady  ;  her  cloak  and 
cap  were  of  snow.  She  was  tall  and  of  slen- 
der figure,  and  of  a  dazzling  whiteness.  It 
was  the  Snow-Queen. 

"  We  have  travelled  fast,"  said  she  ;  "  but  it 
is  freezingly  cold.  Come  under  my  bear- 
skin." And  she  put  him  in  the  sledge  be- 
side her,  wrapped  the  fur  round  him,  and  he 


106  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

felt  as  though  he  were  sinking  in  a  snow 
wreath. 

"  Are  you  still  cold  ?"  asked  she  ;  and  then 
she  kissed  his  forehead.  All  !  it  was  coldei 
than  ice ;  it  penetrated  to  his  very  heart, 
which  was  already  almost  a  frozen  lump ;  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  about  to  die, — 
but  a  moment  more  and  it  was  quite  conge- 
nial to  him,  and  he  did  not  remark  the  cold 
that  was  around  him. 

"  My  sledsre  1  Do  not  forget  my  sledge  ! " 
It  was  the  first  thing  he  thought  of  It  was 
there  tied  to  one  of  the  white  chickens,  who 
flew  along  with  ii  on  his  back  behind  the 
large  sledge.  The  Siiow-Queen  kissed  Kay 
once  more,  and  then  he  forgot  little  Gerda, 
grandmother,  and  all  whom  he  had  left  at 
his  home. 

"  Now  you  will  have  no  more  kisses,"  said 
she,  "  or  else  I  should  kiss  you  to  death  !" 

Kay  looked  at  her.  She  was  very  beauti- 
ful ;  a  more  clever,  or  a  more  lovely  counte- 
nance he  could  not  fancy  to  himself;  and 
she  no  longer  appeared  of  ice  as  before,  when 
she  sat  outside  the  window,  and  beckoned  to 
him  J  in  his  eyes  sbe  was  perfect,  he  did  not 


A    LITTLE    BOY    AND    A    LITTLE    GIRL.    107 

fear  her  at  all,  and  told  her  that  he  could 
calculate  m  his  head  and  with  fractions, 
even  ;  that  he  knew  the  number  of  square 
miles  there  were  in  the  different  countries, 
and  how  many  inhabitants  they  contained  ; 
and  she  smiled  while  he  spoke.  It  then 
seemed  to  him  as  if  what  he  knew  was  not 
enough,  and  he  looked  upwards  in  the  large 
huge  empty  space  above  him,  and  on  she 
flew  with  him ;  flew  high  over  the  black 
clouds,  while  the  storm  moaned  and  whistled 
as  though  it  were  singing  some  old  tune. 
On  they  flew  over  woods  and  lakes,  over 
seas,  and  many  lands;  and  beneath  them 
the  chilling  storm  rushed  fast,  the  wolves 
howled,  the  snow  crackled  ;  above  them  flew 
large  screaming  crows,  but  higher  up  appear- 
ed the  moon,  quite  large  and  bright ;  and  it 
was  on  it  that  Kay  gazed  during  the  long 
long  winter's  night ;  while  by  day  he  slept 
at  the  feet  of  the  Snow-Uueen. 


108  THE    SNOW-aUEEN 


THIRD  STORY. 

OF    THE    FLOWER-GARDEN    AT    THE    OLD    WOMAx's 
WHO    UNDERSTOOD    WITCHCRAFT. 

But  what  became  of  little  Gerda  when 
Kay  did  not  return  ?  Where  could  he  be? 
Nobody  knew ;  nobody  could  give  any  intel- 
lig-ence.  All  the  boys  knew  was,  that  they 
had  sefen  him  tie  his  sledge  to  another  large 
and  splendid  one,  which  drove  down  the 
street  and  out  of  the  town.  Nobody  knew 
where  he  was  ;  many  sad  tears  were  shed, 
and  little  Gerda  wept  long  and  bitterly ;  at 
last  she  said  he  must  be  dead  ;  that  he  had 
haen  drowned  in  the  river  which  flowed  close 
to  the  town.  Oh  !  those  were  very  long  and 
dismal  winter  evenings  ! 

-\t  last  spring  came,  with  its  warm  sun- 
shine. 

"  Kay  is  dead  and  gone  !"  said  little  Gerda. 

"That  I  don't  believe,"  said  the  Sunshine. 

•'  Kay  is  dead  and  gone  !"  said  she  to  the 
Swallows. 

"That  1  don't  believe,"  said  they:  and  at 


THE    FLOWER-GARDEN.  109 

last  little  Gerda  did  not  think  so  any  longer 
cither. 

"  I'll  put  on  my  red  shoes,"  said  she,  one 
morning  ;  "  Kay  has  never  seen  them,  and 
then  I'll  go  down  to  the  river  and  ask  there." 

It  was  quite  early ;  she  kissed  her  old 
grandmother,  who  was  still  asleep,  put  on 
her  red  shoes,  and  went  alone  to  the  river. 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  have  taken  my  little 
playfellow '/  I  will  make  you  a  present  of 
my  red  shoes,  if  you  will  give  him  back  to 
me." 

And,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  the  blue  waves 
nodded  in  a  strange  manner ;  tiien  she  took 
off  her  red  shoes,  the  most  precious  thing  she 
possessed,  and  threw  them  both  into  the 
river.  But  they  fell  close  to  the  bank,  and 
the  little  waves  bore  them  immediately  to 
land  ;  it  was  as  if  the  stream  would  not  take 
what  was  dearest  to  her  ;  for  in  reality  it)?.ad 
not  got  httle  Kay ;  but  Gerda  thought  that 
she  had  not  thrown  the  shoes  out  far  enough, 
so  she  clambered  into  a  boat  which  lay 
among  the  rushes,  went  to  the  farthest  end, 
and  threw  out  the  shoes.  But  the  boat  was 
not  fastened,  and  the  motion  which  she  oc- 


110  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

casioned,  made  it  drift  from  the  shore.  She 
observed  this,  and  hastened  to  get  back  ;  but 
before  she  could  do  so,  the  boat  was  more 
than  a  yard  from  tlie  land,  and  was  gliding 
quickly  onward. 

Little  Gerda  was  very  frightened,  and  be 
gan  to  cry  ;  but  no  one  heard  her  except  the 
sparrows,  and  they  could  not  carry  her  to 
land  ;  but  they  flew  along  the  bank,  and 
sang  as  if  to  comfort  her,  "Here  we..are  ! 
here  we  are !" .  The  boat  drifted  with  the 
stream,  little  Gerda  sat  quite  still  without 
shoes,  for  they  were  swimming  behind  the 
boat,  but  could  not  reach  it,  because  it  went 
much  faster  than  they  did. 

The  banks  on  both  sides  were  beautiful ; 
lovely  flowers,  venerable  trees,  and  slopes 
with  sheep  and  cows,  but  not  a  human  being 
was  to  be  seen. 

"  Perhaps  the  river  will  carry  me  to  little 
Kay,"  said  she ;  and  then  she  grew  less  sad. 
She  rose,  and  looked  for  many  hours  at  the 
beautiful  green  banks.  Presently  she  sailed 
by  a  large  cherry-orchard,  where  was  a  little 
cottage  with  curious  red  and  blue  windows  ; 
\t  was  thatched,  and  before  it  two  wooden 


THE    FLOWER-GARDEN.  Ill 

Boldiers  stood  sentry,  and  presented  arms 
when  any  one  went  past. 

Gerda  called  to  them,  for  she  thought  they 
were  alive ;  but  they,  of  course,  did  not  an- 
swer. She  came  close  to  them,  for  (he  stream 
drifted  the  boat  quite  near  the  land. 

Gerda  called  still  louder,  and  an  old  wo- 
man then  came  out  of  the  cottage,  leaning 
upon  a  crooked  stick.  She  had  a  large  broad- 
brimmed  hat  on,  painted  with  the  most  splen- 
did flowers. 

"  Poor  little  child  !"  said  the  old  woman  ; 
"  how  did  you  get  upon  the  large  rapid  river, 
to  be  driven  about  so  in  the  wide  world  !" 
And  then  the  old  woman  went  into  the  wa- 
ter, caught  hold  of  the  boat  with  her  crooked 
stick,  drew  it  to  the  bank,  and  lifted  little 
Gerda  out. 

And  Gerda  was  so  glad  to  be  on  dry  land 
again  ;  but  she  was  rather  afraid  of  the 
strange  old  woman. 

''  But  come  and  tell  me  who  you  are,  and 
how  you  came  here,"  said  she. 

And  Gerda  told  her  all;  and  the  old  wo- 
man shook  her  head  and  said,  "  A-hem  ' 
a-hem  !"  and  when  Gerda  had   told  her  any- 


112  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

thing,  and  asked  her  if  she  had  not  seen  little 
Kay,  the  woman  answered  that  he  had  not 
j)as3ed  there,  but  he  no  doubt  would  come  ; 
and  she  told  her  not  to  be  cast  down,  but 
taste  her  cherries,  and  look  at  her  flowers, 
which  were  finer  than  any  in  a  picture-book, 
each  of  which  could  tell  a  whole  story.  She 
then  took  Gerda  by  the  hand,  led  her  into 
the  little  cottage,  and  locked  the  door. 

The  windows  were  very  high  up;  tlie 
glass  was  red,  blue,  and  green,  and  the  sun- 
light shone  through  quite  wondrously  in  all 
sorts  of  colors.  On  the  table  stood  the  most 
exquisite  cherries,  and  Gerda  ate  as  many  as 
she  chose,  for  she  had  permission  to  do  so. 
While  she  vv^as  eating,  the  old  woman  comb- 
ed her  hair  with  a  golden  comb,  and  her  hair 
curled  and  shone  with  a  lovely  golden  color 
around  that  sweet  little  face,  which  was  so 
round  and  so  like  a  rose. 

"  I  have  often  longed  for  such  a  dear  httle 
girl,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  Now  you  shall 
see  how  well  we  agree  together ;"  and  while 
she  combed  little  Gerda's  hair,  the  child  for- 
got her  foster-brother  Kay  more  and  more^ 
for  the  old  woman  understood  magic  ;    but 


THE    FLOWER-GARDEN.  113 

she  was  no  evil  being,  she  only  practised 
witchcraft  a  little  for  her  own  private  amuse- 
ment, and  now  she  wanted  very  much  to 
keep  little  Gerda.  She  therefore  went  out  in 
the  garden,  stretched  out  her  crooked  stick 
towards  the  rose-bushes,  which,  beautifully 
as  they  were  blowing,  all  sank  into  the  earth 
and  no  one  could  tell  where  they  had  stood. 
The  old  woman  feared  that  if  Gerda  should 
see  the  roses,  she  would  then  think  of  her 
own,  would  remeujber  little  Kay,  and  run 
away  from  her. 

She  now  led  Gerda  into  the  flower-garden. 
Oh,  what  odour  and  what  loveliness  was 
there  !  Every  flow^er  that  one  could  think  of, 
and  of  every  season,  stood  there  in  fullest 
bloom  ;  no  picture-book  could  be  gayer  or 
more  beautiful.  Gerda  jumped  for  joy,  and 
played  till  the  sun  set  behind  the  tall  cherry- 
tree  ;  she  then  had  a  pretty  bed,  with  a  red 
silken  coverlet  filled  with  blue  violets.,  She 
fell  asleep,  and  had  as  pleasant  dreams  as 
ever  a  queen  on  her  wedding-day. 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  play  with 
the  flowers  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  thug 
passed  away  a  day.  Gerda  knew  every 
8 


114  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

flower  ;  and,  numerous  as  they  were,  it  still 
seemed  to  Gerda  that  one  was  wanting, 
though  she  did  not  know  which.  One  day 
while  she  was  looking  at  the  hat  of  the  old 
woman  painted  with  flowers,  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  them  all  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  rose. 
The  old  woman  had  forgotten  to  take  it  from 
her  hat  when  she  made  the  others  vanish  in 
the  earth.  But  so  it  is  when  one's  thoughts 
are  not  collected.  "  What !"  said  Gerda, 
"  are  there  no  roses  here  ?"  and  she  ran  about 
amongst  the  flower-beds,  and  looked,  and 
looked,  but  there  was  not  one  to  be  found. 
She  then  sat  down  and  wept ;  but  her  hot 
tears  fell  just  where  a  rose-bush  had  sunk ; 
and  when  her  warm  tears  watered  the 
ground,  the  tree  shot  up  suddenly  as  fresh 
and  blooming  as  when  it  had  been  swallowed 
up.  Gerda  kissed  the  roses,  thought  of  her 
own  dear  roses  at  home,  and  with  them  of 
little  Kay. 

"  Oh,  how  long  I  have  stayed !"  said  the 
little  girl.  I  intended  to  look  for  Kay ! 
Don't  you  know  where  he  is?"  asked  she 
of  the  roses.  "  Do  you  think  he  is  dead  and 
gone  ?" 


THE    FLOWER-GARDEN.  115 

"  Dead  he  certainly  is  not,"  said  the  Roses. 
"  We  have  been  in  the  earth  where  all  the 
dead  are,  but  Kay  was  not  there." 

••  Many  thanks  !"  said  the  little  Gerda  ;  and 
she  went  to  the  other  flowers,  looked  into 
their  cups,  and  asked,  "  Don't  you  know 
where  little  Kay  is  ?" 

But  every  flower  stood  in  the  sunshine,  and 
dreamed  its  own  fairy-tale  or  its  own  story: 
and  they  all  told  her  very  many  things,  but 
not  one  knew  anything  of  Kay. 

Well,  what  did  the  Tiger-Lily  say  ? 

"Hearest  thou  not  the  drum?  Bum! 
bum  !  those  are  tlie  only  two  tones.  Always 
bum  !  bum  !  Hark  to  the  plaintive  song  of 
the  old  woman  !  to  the  call  of  the  priests  ! 
The  Hindoo  woman  in  her  long  robe  stands 
upon  the  funeral  pile ;  the  flames  rise  around 
her  and  her  dead  husband,  but  the  Hindoo 
woman  thinks  on  the  living  one  in  the  sur- 
rounding circle  ;  on  him  whose  eyes  burn  hot- 
ter than  the  ilames — on  him,  the  fire  of  whose 
eyes  pierces  her  heart  more  than  the  flames 
which  soon  will  burn  her  body  to  ashes. 
Can  the  heart's  flame  die  in  the  flame  of  the 
funeral  pile  ?" 


(16  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

"I  don't  understand  that  at  all,"  said  little 
Gerda. 

"  That  is  my  story,"  said  the  Lily. 

What  did  the  Convolvulus  say? 

"  Projecting  over  a  narrow  mountain-path 
there  hangs  an  old  feudal  castle.  Thick 
evergreens  grow  on  the  dilapidated  walls, 
and  around  the  altar,  where  a  lovely  maiden 
is  standing  :  she  bends  over  the  railing  and 
looks  out  upon  the  rose.  No  fresher  rose 
hangs  on  the  branches  than  she;  no  apple- 
blossom  carried  away  by  the  wind  is  more 
buoyant !     How  her  silken  robe  is  rustling ! 

"  '•  Is  he  not  yet  come  V  " 

"  Is  it  Kay  that  you  mean  ?"  asked  little 
Gerda. 

"  I  am  speaking  about  my  story — about 
my  dream,"  answered  the  Convolvulus. 

What  did  the  Snow-drops  say  ? 

"  Between  the  trees  a  long  board  is  hang- 
mg — it  is  a  swing.  Two  httle  girls  are  sit- 
ting in  it,  and  swing  themselves  backwards 
and  forwards  ;  their  frocks  are  as  white  as 
snow,  and  long  green  silk  ribands  flutter 
from  their  bonnets.  Their  brother,  who  is 
older  than  they  are,  stands  up  in  the  swing ; 


THE    FLOWER-GARDEN.  117 

he  twines  his  arms  round  the  cords  to  hold 
himself  fast,  for  in  one  hand  he  has  a  little 
cup,  and  in  the  other  a  clay-pipe.  He  is 
blowing  soap  bubbles.  The  swing  moves, 
and  the  bubbles  float  in  charming  changing 
colors  :  the  last  is  still  hanging  to  the  eijd  of 
the  pipe,  and  rocks  in  the  breeze.  The 
swing  moves.  The  little  black  dog,  as  light  as 
a  soap-bubble,  jumps  up  on  his  hind  legs  to 
try  to  get  into  the  swing.  It  moves,  the  dog 
falls  down,  barks,  and  is  angry.  They  tease 
him  ;  the  bubble  bursts  ! — A  swing,  a  burst- 
ing bubble — such  is  my  song  P' 

"  What  you  relate  may  be  very  pretty,  but 
you  tell  it  in  so  melancholy  a  manner,  and 
do  not  mention  Kay." 

What  do  the  Hyacinths  say  ? 

"  There  were  once  upon  a  time  three  sis- 
ters, quite  transparent,  and  very  beautiful. 
The  robe  of  the  one  was  red,  that  of  the  se- 
cond blue,  and  that  of  the  third  white.  They 
danced  hand  in  hand  beside  the  calm  lake  in 
the  clear  moonshine.  They  were  not  eliin 
maidens,  but  mortal  children.  A  sweet  fra- 
grance was  smelt,  and  the  maidens  vanished 
.in  the  wood ;    the  fragrance  grew  strongei 

aa 


118  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

three  coffins,  and  in  them  three  lovely 


maidens,  glided  out  of  the  forest  and  across 
the  lake :  the  shining  glow-worms  flew 
around  like  little  floating  lights.  Do  the 
dancing  maidens  sleep,  or  are  they  dead? 
The  odour  of  the  flowers  says  they  are  corp- 
ses ;  the  evening  bell  tolls  for  the  dead  !" 

"  You  make  me  quite  sad,"  said  little  Ger- 
da.  "  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  dead 
maidens.  Oh  !  is  little  Kay  really  dead? 
The  Roses  have  been  in  the  earth,  and  they 
say  no." 

"  Ding,  dong  !"  sounded  the  Hyacinth  bells. 
"  We  do  not  toll  for  little  Kay  ;  we  do  not 
know  him.  That  is  our  way  of  singing,  the 
only  one  we  have." 

And  Gerda  went  to  the  Ranunculuses,  that 
looked  forth  from  among  the  shining  green 
leaves. 

"  You  are  a  little  bright  sun !"  said  Gerda. 
"  Tell  me  if  you  know  where  1  can  find  my 
playfellow." 

And  the  Ranunculus  shone  brightly,  and 
looked  again  at  Gerda.  Why.t  song  could 
the  Rananculus  sing  ?  It  was  one  that  said 
nothing  about  Kay  either. 


THE    FLOWER-GARDEN.  110 

"  In  a  small  court  the  bright  sun  was  shin- 
ing in  the  first  days  of  spring.  The  beams 
ghded  down  the  white  walls  of  a  neighbor's 
house,  and  close  by  the  fresh  yellow  flowers 
were  growing,  shining  like  gold  in  the  warm 
sun-rays.  An  old  grandmother  was  sitting 
in  the  air  ;  her  grand-daughter,  the  poor  and 
lovely  servant  just  come  for  a  short  visit. 
She  knows  her  grandmother.  There  w^as 
gold,  pure  virgin  gold  in  that  blessed  kiss. 
There,  that  is  my  little  story,"  said  the  Ra- 
nunculus 

'•  My  poor  old  grandmother  !*'  sighed  Ger- 
da.  "  Yes,  she  is  longing  for  me,  no  doubt : 
she  is  sorrowing  for  me,  as  she  did  for  little 
Kay.  But  I  will  soon  come  home,  and  tlien 
I  will  bring  Kay  with  me.  It  is  of  no  use 
asking  the  flowers ;  they  only  know  their 
own  old  rhymes,  and  can  tell  me  nothing." 
And  she  tucked  up  her  frock,  to  enable  lier 
to  run  quicker ;  but  the  Narcissus  gave  her 
a  knock  on  the  leg,  just  as  she  was  going 
to  jump  over  it.  So  she  stood  still,  looked  at 
the  long  yellow  flower,  and  asked,  "  You  per- 
haps know  something  ?"  and  she  bent  down 
to  the  Narcissus.     And  what  did  it  say  ? 


120  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

"  I  can  see  myself — I  can  see  myself !  Oh^ 
how  odorous  I  am  !  Up  in  the  little  garret 
there  stands,  half-dressed,  a  little  Dancer. 
She  stands  now  on  one  leg,  now  on  both ; 
she  despises  the  whole  world  ;  yet  she  lives 
only  in  imagination.  She  pours  water  out 
of  the  teapot  over  a  piece  of  stuff  which  she 
holds  in  her  hand ;  it  is  the  bodice  ;  cleanli- 
ness is  a  fine  thing.  The  white  dress  is 
hanging  on  the  hook  ;  it  was  washed  in  the 
teapot,  and  dried  on  the  roof.  She  puts  it 
on,  ties  a  saffron-colored  kerchief  round  her 
neck,  and  then  the  gown  looks  whiter.  I  can 
see  myself — I  can  see  myself !" 

"  That's  nothing  to  me,'"  said  little  Gerda. 
"  That  does  not  concern  me."  And  then  off 
she  ran  to  the  further  end  of  the  garden. 

The  gate  was  locked,  but  she  shook  the 
rusted  bolt  till  it  was  loosened,  and  the  gate 
opened  ;  and  little  Gerda  ran  off  barefooted 
into  the  wide  world.  She  looked  round  her 
thrice,  but  no  one  followed  her.  At  last  she 
could  run  no  longer  ;  she  sat  down  on  a  large 
stone,  and  when  she  looked  about  her,  she 
saw  that  the  summer  had  passed  ;  it  was  late 
in   the  autumn,  but  that  one  could  not  re- 


THE    PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS.  121 

mark  in  the  beautiful  garden,  wliere  there 
was  always  sunshine,  and  wliere  there  were 
flowers  the  whole  year  round. 

"  Dear  me,  how  long  I  have  staid  !"  said 
Gerda.  "  Autumn  is  come.  I  must  not  rest 
any  longer.''     And  she  got  up  to  go  further. 

Oh,  how  tender  and  wearied  her  little  feet 
were  !  All  around  it  looked  so  cold  and  raw  : 
the  long  willow-leaves  were  quite  yellow,  and 
the  fog  dripped  from  them  like  water;  one 
leaf  fell  after  the  other :  the  sloes  only  stood 
full  of  fruit,  wiiich  set  one's  teeth  on  edge. 
Oh,  how  dark  and  comfortless  it  was  in  the 
dreary  world ! 


FOURTH  STORY. 

THE      PRIXOE     AND      I'RINCESS. 

Gerda  was  obliged  to  rest  herself  again, 
when,  exactly  opposite  to  her,  a  large  Raven 
came  hopping  over  the  white  snow.  He  had 
long  been  looking  at  Gerda  and  shaking  his 
head  ;  and  now  he  said,  "  Caw !  caw !"  Good 


^:.I22  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 


day!  good  day  !  He  could  not  say  it  better  ; 
but  he  felt  a  sympathy  for  the  httle  girl,  and 
asked  her  where  sue  was  going  all  alone. 
The  word  "alone"  Gerda  understood  quite 
well,  and  felt  how  much  was  expressed  by  it ; 
so  she  told  the  Raven  her  whole  history,  and 
asked  if  he  had  not  seen  Ka^. 

The  Raven  nodded  very  gravely,  and  said, 
"It  may  be — it  may  oe  !" 

"  AYhat,  do  you  really  think  so  ?"  cried  the 
httle  girl ;  and  she  nearly  squeezed  the  Ra- 
ven to  death,  so  nnich  did  she  kiss  him. 

"Gently,  gently,"  said  the  Raven.  "I 
think  I  know ;  I  think  that  it  may  be  little 
Kay.  But  now  he  has  forgotten  you  for  the 
Princess." 

"Does  he  live  with  a  Princess?"  asked 
Gerda. 

"  Yes, — listen,"  said  the  Raven  ;  "  but  it 
will  be  difficult  for  me  to  speak  your  lan- 
guage. If  you  understand  the  Raven  lan- 
guage I  can  tell  you  better." 

"  No,  I  have  not  learnt  it,"  said  Gerda ; 
"but  my  grandmother  understands  it,  and 
she  can  speak  gibberish  too.  I  wish  I  had 
earnt  it." 


THE    PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS.  123 

"  No  matter,"  said  the  Raven  ;  "  I  will  tell 
you  as  well  as  I  can  ;  however,  it  will  be 
bad  enough."     And  then  he  told  all  he  knew. 

"In  the  kingdom  where  we  now  are  there 
lives  a  Princess,  who  is  extraordinarily  cle- 
ver ;  for  she  has  read  all  the  newspapers  in 
the  whole  world,  and  has  forgotten  them' 
again, — so  clever  is  she.  She  was  lately,  it 
is  said,  sitting  on  her  throne, — which  is  not 
very  amusing  after  all, — when  she  began 
humming  an  old  tune,  and  it  was  just,  '  Oh, 
why  should  I  not  be  married?'  'That song  is 
not  without  its  meaning,'  said  she,  and  so  then 
she  was  determined  to  marry ;  but  she  would 
have  a  husband  who  knew  how  to  give  an 
answer  when  he  was  spoken  to, — not  one 
who  looked  only  as  if  he  were  a  great  per- 
sonage, for  that  is  so  tiresome.  She  then  had 
all  the  ladies  of  the  court  drummed  together  ; 
and  when  they  heard  her  intention,  all  were 
very  pleased,  and  said,  '  We  are  very  glad  to 
hear  it ;  it  is  the  very  thing  we  were  think- 
ing of  You  may  believe  every  word  I  say," 
said  the  Raven  ;  "  for  I  have  a  tame  sweet- 
heart that  hops  about  in  the  palace  quite 
free,  and  it  was  she  who  told  me  all  this. 


124  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

"  The  newspapers  appeared  forthwith  with 
a  border  of  hearts  and  the  initials  of  the 
Princess ;  and  therein  you  might  read  that 
every  good-looking  young  man  was  at  liberty 
to  come  to  the  palace  and  speak  to  the  Prin- 
cess ;  and  he  who  spoke  in  such  wise  as 
showed  he  felt  himself  at  home  there,  that  one 
the  Princess  would  choose  for  her  husband. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Raven,  you  may  be- 
lieve it ;  it  is  as  true  as  I  am  sitting  here. 
People  came  in  crowds  ;  there  was  a  crush 
and  a  hurry,  but  no  one  was  successful  either 
on  the  first  or  second  day.  They  could  all 
talk  well  enough  when  they  were  out  in  the 
street ;  but  as  soon  as  they  came  inside  the 
palace-gates,  and  saw  the  guard  richly  dress- 
ed in  silver,  and  the  lackeys  in  gold  on  the 
staircase,  and  the  large  illuminated  saloons, 
then  they  were  abashed  ;  and  when  they 
stood  before  the  throne  on  which  the  Princess 
was  sitting,  all  they  could  do  was  to  repeat 
the  last  word  they  had  uttered,  and  to  hear  it 
again  did  not  interest  her  very  much.  It  was 
just  as  if  the  people  within  were  under  a 
charm,  and  had  fallen  into  a  trance  till  they 
came  out  again  into  the  street ;  for  then, — • 


THE    PKINCE    AND    PRINCESS.  125 

oh,  then, — they  could  chatter  enough.  There 
was  a  whole  row  of  them  standing  from  the 
town-gdtes  to  the  palace.  1  was  there  myself 
to  look,"  said  the  Raven.  "  They  grew  hun- 
gry and  thirsty  ;  but  from  the  palace  they  got 
nothing  whatever,  not  even  a  glass  of  water. 
Some  of  the  cleverest,  it  is  true,  had  taken 
bread  and  butter  witli  them  :  but  none  shared 
it  with  his  neighbor,  for  each  thought,  '  Let 
him  look  hungry,  and  then  the  Princess  won't 
have  him.' " 

"  But  Kay — httle  Kay,"  said  Gerda,  "when 
did  he  come  ?  was  he  among  the  number?" 

"Patience,  patience;  we  are  just  come  to 
him.  It  was  on  the  third  day,  when  a  little 
personage  without  horse  or  equipage,  came  / 
marching  right  boldly  up  to  the  palace ;  his 
eyes  shone  like  yours,  he  had  beautiful  long 
hau',  but  his  clothes  were  Very  shabby." 

"  That  was  Kay,"  cried  Gerda,  with  a 
voice  of  delight.  "  Oh,  now  I've  found  him  !" 
and  she  clapped  her  hands  for  joy. 

"  He  had  a  little  knapsack  at  his  back," 
said  the  Raven. 

"  No,  that  was  certainly  his  sledge, '  said 


126  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

Gerda  ;  "  for  when  he  went  away  he  took  his 
sledge  with  him." 

"  That  may  be,"  said  the  Raven  ;  "  I  did 
not  examine  him  so  minutely ;  but  I  know 
from  my  tame  sweetheart,  that  when  he  came 
into  the  courtyard  of  the  palace,  and  saw  the 
body-guard  in  silver,  the  lackeys  on  the  stair- 
case, he  was  not  the  least  abashed  ;  he  nod- 
ded, and  said  to  them,  '  It  must  be  very  tire- 
some to  stand  on  the  stairs ;  for  my  part,  I 
shall  go  in.'  The  saloons  were  gleaming 
with  lustres, — privy  councillors  and  excellen- 
cies were  walking  about  barefooted,  and 
wore  gold  keys ;  it  was  enough  to  make 
any  one  feel  uncomfortable.  His  boots 
creaked,  too,  so  loudly,  but  still  he  was  not  at 
all  afraid." 

"That's  Kay  for  certain,"  said  Gerda.  "I 
know  he  had  on  new  boots ;  I  have  heard 
them  creaking  in  grandmama's  room." 

"  Yes,  they  creaked,"  said  the  Raven. 
"  And  on  he  went  boldJy  up  to  the  Princess, 
who  was  sitting  on  a  pearl  as  large  as  a 
spinning-wheel.  All  the  ladies  of  the  court, 
with  their  attendants  and  attendants'  atten- 
dants, and  all  the  cavaliers,  with  their  gentle- 


THE    PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS.  127 

men  and  gentlemen's  gentlemen,  stood  round  ; 
and  the  nearer  they  stood  to  the  door,  the 
prouder  they  looked.  It  was  hardly  possible 
to  look  at  the  gentleman's  gentleman,  so  very 
haughtily  did  he  stand  in  the  doorway." 

"  It  must  have  been  terrible,"  said  little 
Gerda.     "  And  did  Kay  get  the  Princess  ?" 

"  Were  I  not  a  Raven,  I  should  have  taken 
the  Princess  jnyself,  although  I  am  promised. 
It  is  said  he  spoke  as  well  as  I  speak  when  I 
talk  Raven  language  ;  this  I  learned  from  my 
tame  sweetheart.  He  was  bold  and  nicely 
behaved  ;  he  had  not  come  to  woo  the  Prin- 
cess, but  only  to  hear  her  wisdom.  She 
pleased  him,  and  he  pleased  her."   . 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  for  certain  that  was  Kay,"  said 
Gerda.  "  He  was  so  clever  ;  he  could  reckon 
fractions  in  his  head.  Oh,  won't  you  take 
me  to  the  palace  ?" 

"  That  is  very  easily  said,"  answered  the 
Raven.  "  But  how  are  we  to  manage  it  ? 
I'll  speak  to  my  tame  sweetheart  about  it  : 
she  must  advise  us ;  for  so  much  1  must  tell 
you.  such  a  little  girl  as  you  are  will  never 
get  permission  to  enter." 

"Oh,  yes   I    shall,"    said  Gerda j  "when 


l28  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

Kay  hears  that  I  am  here,  he  will  come  out 
directly  to  fetch  me." 

"  Wait  for  me  here  on  these  steps,"  said  the 
Raven.  He  moved  his  head  backwards  and 
forwards  and  flew  away. 

The  evening  was  closing  in  when  the  Ra- 
ven returned.  "  Caw — caw  !"  said  he.  "  She 
sends  you  her  comphments  ;  and  here  is  a 
roll  for  you.  '  She  took  it  out  of  the  kitchen, 
where  there  is  bread  enough.  You  are 
hungry,  no  doubt.  It  is  not  possible  for  you 
to  enter  the  palace,  for  you  are  barefooted  : 
the  guards  in  silver,  and  the  lackeys  in  gold, 
would  not  allow  it ;  but  do  not  cry,  you  shall 
come  in  still.  My  sweetheart  knows  a  little 
back  stair  that  leads  to  the  bedchamber,  and 
she  knows  where  she  can  get  the  key  of  it." 

And  they  went  into  the  garden  in  the  large 
avenue,  where  one  leaf  was  falling  after  the 
other  ;  and  when  the  lights  in  the  palace  had 
all  gradually  disappeared,  the  Raven  led  little 
Gerda  to  the  back  door,  which  stood  half 
open. 

O,  how  Gerda's  heart  beat  with  anxiety 
and  longing  !  It  was  just  as  if  she  had  been 
about  to  do  something  wrong ;  and  yet  she 


THE    PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS.  129 

only  wanted  to  know  if  little  Kay  was  there. 
Yes,  he  must  be  there.  She  called  to  mind 
his  intelligent  eyes,  and  his  long  hair,  so  vivid- 
ly, she  could  quite  see  him  as  he  used  to  laugh 
when  they  were  sitting  under  the  roses  at 
home.  "  He  will,  no  doubt,  be  glad  to  see  you, 
— to  hear  what  a  long  way  you  have  come 
for  his  sake  ;  to  know  how  unhappy  all  at 
home  were  when  he  did  not  come  back." 

Oh,  what  a  fright  and  a  joy  it  was  ! 

They  were  now  on  the  stairs.  A  single 
lamp  was  burning  there;  and  on  the  floor 
stood  the  tame  Raven,  turning  her  head  on 
every  side  and  looking  at  Gerda,  who  bowed 
as  her  grandmother  had  taught  her  to  do. 

"  My  intended  has  told  me  so  much  good 
of  you,  m}^  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  tame 
Raven.  "  Your  tale  is  very  affecting.  If 
you  will  take  the  lamp,  I  will  go  before.  We 
will  go  straight  on,  for  we  shall  meet  no  one." 

"  I  think  there  is  somebody  just  behind 
us,"  said  Gerda  ;  and  something  rushed  past : 
it  was  like  shadowy  figures  on  the  wall ; 
horses  with  flowing  manes  and  thin  legs, 
huntsmen,  ladies  and  gentlemen  on  horse- 
back. 

9 


130  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

"  They  are  only  dreams,"  said  the  Raven. 
"They  come  to  fetch  the  thoughts  of  the 
high  personages  to  the  chase ;  'tis  well,  for 
now  you  can  observe  them  in  bed  all  the 
better.  But  let  me  find,  when  you  enjoy 
honor  and  distinction,  that  you  possess  a 
grateful  heart." 

"Tut!  that's  not  worth  talking  about," 
said  the  Raven  of  the  woods. 

They  now  entered  the  first  saloon,  which 
was  of  rose-colored  satin,  with  artificial  flow 
ers  on  the  w^all.  Here  the  dreams  were  rush- 
ing past,  but  they  hastened  by  so  quickly 
that  Gerda  could  not  see  the  high  personages. 
One  hall  was  more  magnificent  than  the 
other  ;  one  might  indeed  well  be  abashed ; 
and  at  last  they  came  into  the  bedchamber. 
The  ceiling  of  the  room  resembled  a  large 
palm-tree  with  leaves  of  glass,  of  costly  glass  ; 
and  in  the  middle,  from  a  thick  golden  stem, 
hung  two  beds,  each  of  which  resembled  a 
lily.  One  was  white,  and  in  this  lay  the 
Princess  ;  the  other  was  red,  and  it  was  here 
that  Gerda  was  to  look  for  little  Kay.  She 
bent  back  one  of  the  red  leaves  and  saw  a 
brown  neck — Oh  !  that  was  Kay  !     She  call- 


THE    PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS.  131 

ed  him  quite  loud  by  name,  held  the  lamp 
towards  him — the  dreams  rushed  back  again 
into  the  chamber — he  awoke,  turned  his 
head,  and — it  was  not  httle  Kay  ! 

The  Prince  was  only  like  him  about  the 
neck ;  but  he  was  young  and  handsome. 
And  out  of  the  white  lily  leaves  the  Princess 
peeped,  too,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 
Then  little  Gerda  cried,  and  told  her  her 
whole  history,  and  all  that  the  Ravens  had 
done  for  her. 

"  Poor  little  thing !"  said  the  Prince  and 
the  Princess.  They  praised  the  Ravens  very 
much,  and  told  them  iliey  were  not  at  all 
angry  with  them,  but  they  were  not  to  do  so 
again.     However,  they  should  have  a  reward. 

"  Will  you  fiy  about  here  at  liberty,"  asked 
the  Princess  ;  "  or  would  you  like  to  have  a 
fixed  appointment  as  court  ravens,  with  all 
the  broken  bits  from  the  kitchen  ?" 

And  both  the  Ravens  nodded,  and  begged 
for  a  fixed  appointment;  for  they  thought  of 
their  old  age,  and  said,  "  it  was  a  good  thing 
to  have  a  provision  for  their  old  days." 

And  the  Prince  got  up  and  let  Gerda  sleep 
in  his  bed,  and  more  than  this  b.e  could  no! 


132  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

do.  She  folded  her  httle  hands  and  thought, 
"  how  good  men  and  animals  are  !"  and  she 
then  fell  asleep  and  slept  soundly.  All  the 
dreams  flew  in  again,  and  they  now  looked 
like  the  angels ;  they  drew  a  little  sledge,  in 
which  little  Kay  sat  and  nodded  his  head  ; 
but  the  whole  was  only  a  dream,  and  there- 
fore it  all  vanished  as  soon  as  she  awoke. 

The  next  day  she  was  dressed  from  head 
to  foot  in  silk  and  velvet.  They  offered  to 
let  her  stay  at  the  palace,  and  lead  a  happy 
life  ;  but  she  begged  to  have  a  little  carriage 
with  a  horse  in  front,  and  for  a  small  pair  of 
shoes ;  then,  she  said,  she  would  again  go 
forth  in  the  wide  world  and  look  for  Kay. 

Shoes  and  a  muff  were  given  her ;  she 
was,  too,  dressed  very  nicely  ;  and  when  she 
was  about  to  set  off,  a  new  carriage  stopped 
before  the  door.  It  was  of  pure  gold,  and  ihe 
arms  of  the  Prince  and  Princess  shone  like  a 
star  upon  it ;  the  coachman,  the  footmen, 
and  the  outriders,  for  outriders  were  tliere, 
too,  all  wore  golden  crowns.  The  Prince 
and  the  Princess  assisted  l^er  into  the  carriag;e 
themselves,  and  wished  her  all  success.  The 
Raven  of  the  woods,  who  was  now  married, 


THE    LITTLE    ROBBER-MAIDEN.        133 

accompanied  her  for  the  first  three  miles.  He 
sat  beside  Gerda,  for  he  could  not  bear  riding 
backwards;  the  other  Raven  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  flapped  her  wings  ;  she  could 
not  accompany  Gerda,  because  she  suffered 
from  headache  since  she  had  had  a  fixed  ap- 
pointment and  ate  so  much.  The  carriage 
was  lined  inside  with  sugar-plums,  and  in 
the  seats  were  fruits  and  gingerbread. 

"  Farewell !  farewell !"  cried  Prince  and 
Princess  ;  and  Gerda  wept,  and  the  Raven 
wept.  Thus  passed  the  first  miles ;  and 
then  the  Raven  bade  her  farewell,  and  this 
was  the  most  painful  separation  of  all.  He 
flew  into  a  tree,  and  beat  his  black  wings  as 
long  as  he  could  see  the  carriage,  that  shone 
from  afar  like  a  sunbeam. 


FIFTH    STORY, 

THE    LITTLE     ROBBER-MAIDEN. 

They  drove  through  the  dark  wood ;  but 
the  carriage  shone  like  a  torch,  and  it  dazzled 
bb 


134  THE    SNOAV-Q.UEEN. 

the  eyes  of  the  robbers,  so  that  they  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  it. 

"  'T  is  gold  !  't  is  gold  !"  cried  they  ;  and 
they  rushed  forward,  seized  the  horses,  knock- 
ed down  the  httle  postilion,  the  coachman, 
and  the  servants,  and  pulled  little  Gerda  out 
of  the  carriage. 

"How  plump,  how  beautiful  she  is  !  She 
must  have  been  fed  on  nut-kernels,"  said  the 
old  female  Robber,  who  had  a  long,  scrubby 
beard,  and  bushy  eyebrows  that  hung  down 
over  her  eyes ;  "  she  is  as  good  as  a  fatted 
lamb  !  how  nice  she  will  be  !"  And  then  she 
drew  out  a  knife,  the  blade  of  which  shone  so 
that  it  was  quite  dreadful  to  behold. 

"  Oh  !^'  cried  the  woman  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. She  had  been  bitten  in  the  ear  by 
her  own  little  daughter,  who  himg  at  her 
back  ;  and  who  was  so  wild  and  unmanage- 
able, that  it  was  quite  amusing  to  see  her. 
"  You  naughty  child  !"  said  the  mother  :  and 
now  she  had  not  time  to  kill  Gerda. 

"  She  sball  play  with  me,"  said  the  little 
Robber-child  ;  "she  shall  give  me  her  muff, 
and  her  p jetty  frock  ;  she  ^all  sleep  in  my 
bed !"     And  then   she  gave  her  mother  an- 


THE    LITTLE    ROBBER-MAIDEN.         135 

Other  bite,  so  that  she  jumped,  and  ran  round 
with  the  pain  ;  and  the  Robbers  laughed, 
and  said,  "  Look,  how  she  is  dancing  with 
the  httle  one  !" 

"  I  will  go  into  the  carriage,"  said  the  little 
Robber-maiden  ;  and  she  would  have  her 
will,  for  she  was  very  spoiled  and  very  head- 
strong. She  and  Gerda  got  in  ;  and  then 
away  they  drove  over  the  stumps  of  felled 
trees,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  woods.  The 
little  Robber-maiden  was  as  tall  as  Gerda, 
but  stronger,  broader-shouldered,  and  of  dark 
complexion  ;  her  eyes  were  quite  black  ;  they 
looked  almost  melancholy.  She  embraced 
little  Gerda,  and  said,  "  They  shall  not  kill 
you  as  long  as  I  am  not  displeased  with  you. 
You  arc,  doubtless,  a  Princess?" 

"  No,"  said  little  Gerda  ;  who  then  related 
all  that  had  happened  to  her.  and  how  much 
she  cared  about  little  Kay. 

The  little  Robber-maiden  looked  at  her 
with  a  serious  air,  nodded  her  head  slightly, 
and  said,  "  They  shall  not  kill  you,  even  if 
I  am  angry  with  you :  then  I  will  do  it  my- 
self;" and  she  dried   Gerda's  eyes,  and  put 


136  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

both  her  hands  in  the  handsome  mulT,  which 
was  so  soft  and  warm. 

At  length  the  carriage  stopped.  They 
were  in  the  midst  of  the  conrt-yard  of  a 
robber's  castle.  It  was  full  of  cracks  from 
top  to  bottom  ;  and  out  of  the  openings 
magpies  and  rooks  were  flying ;  and  the 
great  bull-dogs,  each  of  which  looked  as  if 
he  could  swallow  a  man,  jumped  up,  but 
they  did  not  bark,  for  that  was  forbidden. 

In  the  midst  of  the  large,  old,  smoking 
hall  burnt  a  great  fire  on  the  stone  floor. 
The  smoke  disappeared  under  the  stones, 
and  had  to  seek  its  own  egress.  In  an  im- 
mense caldron  soup  was  boiling  ;  and  rab- 
bits and   hares  were  being  loasted  on  a  spit. 

"  You  shall  sleep  with  me  to-night,  with 
all  my  animals,"  said  the  little  Robber-maiden. 
They  had  something  to  eat  and  drink  ;  and 
then  went  into  a  corner,  where  straw  and 
carpets  were  lying.  Beside  them,  on  laths 
and  perches,  sat  nearly  a  hundred  pigeons,  all 
asleep,  seemingly  ;  but  yet  they  moved  a 
little  when  the  Robber-maiden  came.  "  They 
are  all  mine."'  said  she  ;  at  the  same  time 
seizing  one  that  was  next  to  htr  by  the  legs 


THE    LITTLE    ROBBER-MAIDEN.        13< 


and  shaking  it  so  that  its  wings  fluttered. 
'•  Kiss  it,"  cried  the  httle  girl,  and  flung  the 
pigeon  in  Gerda's  face.  "  Up  there  is  the 
rabble  of  the  wood,"  continued  she,  pointing 
to  several  laths  which  weie  fastened  before  a 
hole  high  up  in  the  wall ;  "  that's  the  rabble  ; 
they  would  all  fly  away  immediately,  if  they 
were  not  well  fastened  in.  And  here  is  my 
dear  old  Bac  ;•"  and  she  laid  hold  of  the 
horns  of  a  reindeer,  that  had  a  bright  copper  i 
ring  round  its  neck,  and  was  tethered  to  the  i 
spot.  "  We  are  obliged  to  lock  this  fellow  j 
in  too,  or  he  would  make  his  escape.  Every  I 
evening  I  tickle  his  neck  with  my  sharp 
knife;  he  is  so  frightened  at  it!"  and  the  | 
httle  girl  drew  forth  a  long  knife,  from  a  i 
crack  in  the  wall,  and  let  it  glide  over  the 
reindeer's  neck.  The  poor  animal  kicked  ; 
the  girl  laughed,  and  pulled  Gerda  into  bed 
with  her. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  keep  your  knife  while 
you  sleep  ?  asked  Gerda ;  looking  at  it 
rather  fearfully. 

'•  I  always  sleep  with  the  knife,"  said  the 
little  Robber-maiden  ;  "  there  is  no  knowing 
what  may  happen.     But  tell  me  now,  once 


138  THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN. 

more,  all  about  little  Kay  ;  and  why  you 
have  started  off  in  the  wide  world  alone." 
And  Gerda  related  all,  from  the  very  begin- 
ning :  the  wood-pigeons  cooed  above  in  their 
cage,  and  the  others  slept.  The  little  Rob- 
ber-maiden wound  her  arm  round  Gerda's 
neck,  held  the  knife  in  the  other  hand,  and 
snored  so  loud  that  every  body  could  hear 
her  ;  but  Gerda  could  not  close  her  eyes, 
for  she  did  not  know  whether  she  was  to  live 
or  die.  The  Robbers  sat  round  the  fire,  sang 
and  drank ;  and  the  old  female  Robber 
jumped  about  so,  that  it  was  quite  dreadful 
for  Gerda  to  see  her. 

Then  the  Wood-pigeons  said,  "  Coo  !  coo  ! 
we  have  seen  little  Kay !  A  white  hen 
carries  his  sledge ;  he  himself  sat  in  the 
carriage  of  the  Snow-Q,ueen,  who  passed 
here,  down  just  over  the  wood,  as  we  lay  in 
our  nest.  She  blew  upon  us  young  ones  ; 
and  all  died  except  we  two.     Coo  !  coo  !" 

"  What  is  that  you  say  up  there  ?"  cried 
httle  Gerda.  "Where  did  the  Snow-dueen 
g-o  to?     Do  you  know  any  thing  about  it?" 

"  She  is  no  doubt  gone  to  Lapland  ;  foi 


THE    LITTLE    ROBBER-MAIDEN.        139 

there  is  always  snow  and  ice  there.  Only 
ask  the  reindeer,  who  is  tethered  there." 

"  Ice  and  snow  is  tliere !  There  it  is, 
g-lorious  and  heautiful !"  said  the  Reindeer. 
•^  One  can  spring  ahout  in  the  large  shining 
valleys  !  The  Snow-Queen  hasher  summer 
lent  there:  but  her  fixed  abode  is  high  up 
towards  the  North  Pole,  on  the  Island  called 
Spitzbergen." 

"Oh,  Kay !  poor  little  Kay!"  sighed  Gerda. 

"Do  you  choose  to  be  quiet?"  said  the 
Robber-maiden.  "  If  you  don't,  I  shall  make 
you." 

In  the  morning  Gerda  told  her  all  that  the 
Wood-pigeons  had  said ;  and  the  little  maid- 
en looked  very  serious,  but  she  nodded  her 
head,  and  said,  "  That's  no  matter — that's 
no  matter.  Do  you  know  where  Lapland 
lies !"  asked  she  of  the  Reindeer. 

"  Who  should  know  better  than  I  ?"  said 
the  animal ;  and  his  eyes  rolled  in  his  head. 
"  I  was  born  and  bred  there  ; — there  I  leapt 
about  on  the  fields  of  snow. 

'-  Listen,"  said  the  Robber  maiden  to 
Gerda.  "  You  see  that  the  men  are  gone  *, 
but  my  mother  is  still  here,  and  will  remain. 


140  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

However,  towards  morning  she  takes  a 
draught  .out  of  the  laige  tiask,  and  then  she 
sleeps  a  httle :  then  I  will  do  something  for 
you."  She  now  jumped  out  of  bed,  flew  to 
her  mother ;  with  her  arms  round  her  neck, 
and  puUing  her  by  the  beard,  said,  "Good 
morrow,  my  own  sweet  nanny-goat  of  a 
mother."'  And  her  mother  took  hold  of  her 
nose,  and  pinched  it  till  it  was  red  and  blue  ; 
but  this  was  all  done  out  of  pure  love. 

When  the  mother  had  taken  a  sup  at  her 
flask,  and  was  having  a  nap,  the  little 
Robber-maiden  went  to  the  Reindeer,  and 
said,  "I  should  very  much  like  to  give  you' 
still  many  a  tickling  with  the  sharp  knife, 
for  then  you  are  so  amusing ;  however,  I 
will  un tether  you,  and  help  you  out,  £0  that 
you  may  go  back  to  Lapland.  But  you 
must  make  good  use  of  your  legs  ;  and  take 
this  little  girl  for  me  to  the  palace  of  the 
Snow-Q,ueen,  where  her  play-fellow  is.  You 
have  heard,  I  suppose,  all  she  said  ;  for  she 
spoke  loud  enough,  and  you  were  listening." 

The  Reindeer  gave  a  bound  for  joy.  The 
Robber-maiden  lifted  up  little  Gerda,  and 
took  the  precaution  to  bini  hei  fast  on  the 


THE    LITTLE    ROBBER-MAIDEN.        Ill 

Reindeer's  back  ;  she  even  gave  her  a  small 
cushion  to  sit  on.  "  Here  are  your  worsted 
leggins,  for  it  will  be  cold ;  but  the  niuH"  I 
shall  keep  for  myself,  for  it  is  so  very  pretty. 
But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  cold.  Here  is 
a  pair  of  lined  gloves  of  my  mother's  ;  they 
just  reach  up  to  your  elbow.  On  with  them ! 
Now  you  look  about  the  hands  just  like  m/ 
ugly  old  mother !" 

And  Gerda  wept  for  joy. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  fretting,"  said  the 
little  Robber-maiden.  "  This  is  just  the 
time  when  you  ought  to  look  pleased. 
Here  are  two  loaves  and  a  ham  for  you,  so 
that  you  won't  starve."  The  bread  and  the 
meat  were  fastened  to  the  Reindeer's  back; 
the  little  maiden  opened  the  door,  called  in 
all  the  dogs,  and  then  with  her  knife  cut  the 
rope  that  fastened  the  animal,  and  said  to 
him,  "  Now,  off  with  you ;  but  take  good 
care  of  the  little  girl  !" 

And  Gerda  stretched  out  her  hands  with 
the  large  wadded  gloves  towards  the  Robber- 
maiden,  and  said,  "  Farewell !"  and  tne 
Reindeer  flew  on  over  bush  and    bramole 

CO 


142  THE    LAPLAND    WOMEN. 

through  the  great  wood,  over  moor  and  heath, 
as  fast  as  he  could  go. 

"  Ddsa !  ddsa  !"  was  heard  in  the  sky.  It 
was  just  as  if  somebody  was  sneezing. 

"  These  are  my  old  northern-lights,"  said 
the  Reindeer,  -Mook  how  they  gleam  !  And 
on  he  now  sped  still  quicker, — day  and 
night  on  he  went :  the  loaves  were  consum- 
ed, and  the  ham  too ;  and  now  they  were 
in  Lapland. 


I  SIXTH  STORY. 

i  THE    LAPLAND    WOMAN    AND    THE    FINLAND 

!  WOMAN. 

Suddenly  they  stopped  before  a  little 
house,  which  looked  very  miserable :  tlie 
roof  reached  to  the  ground ;  and  the  door 
was  so  low,  that  the  family  were  obliged  to 
creep  upon  their  stomachs  when  they  went 
in  or  out.  Nobody  was  at  home  except  an 
old  Lapland  woman,  who  was  dressing  fish 


THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN.  143 

by  the  light  of  an  oil  lamp.  And  the  Rein- 
deer told  her  the  whole  of  Gerda's  history, 
but  first  of  all  his  own ;  for  that  seemed  to 
him  of  much  greater  importance.  Gerda 
was  so  chilled  that  she  could  not  speak. 

"  Poor  thing,"  said  the  Lapland  woman, 
"  you  have  far  to  run  still.  You  have  more 
than  a  hundred  miles  to  go  before  you  get  to 
Finland  ;  there  the  Snow-Q,ueen  has  liei 
country-house,  and  burns  blue  lights  every 
evening.  I  will  give  you  a  few  words  from 
me,  which  I  will  write  on  a  dried  haberdine, 
for  paper  I  have  none ;  this  you  can  take 
with  you  to  the  Finland  woman,  and  she 
will  be  able  to  give  you  more  information 
than  I  can." 

When  Gerda  had  warmed  herself^^  and 
had  eaten  and  drunk  the  Lapland  woman 
wrote  a  few  words  on  a  dried  haberdine, 
begged  Gerda  to  take  care  of  them,  put  her 
on  the  Reindeer,  bound  her  fast,  and  away 
sprang  the  animal.  "  Ddsa  !  ddsa  !"  was 
again  heaid  in  the  air ;  the  most  charming 
blue  lights  burned  the  whole  night  in  the  sky, 
and  at  last  they  came  to   Finland.     They 


144  THE    LAPLAND    WOMAN. 

knocked  at  the  chimney  of  the  Fmland 
woman ;  for  as  to  a  door,  she  had  none. 

There  was  such  a  heat  inside  that  the 
^Finland  woman  herself  went  about  ahnost 
naked.  She  w^as  diminutive  and  dirty.  She 
immediately  loosened  little  Gerda's  clothes, 
pulled  off  her  thick  gloves  and  boots  ;  for 
otherwise  the  heat  Avould  have  been  too 
great, — and  after  laying  a  piece  of  ice  on  the 
Reindeer's  head,  read  what  was  written  on 
the  fish-skin.  She  read  it  three  times  :  she 
then  knew  it  by  heart ;  so  she  put  the  fish 
into  the  cupboard, — for  it  might  very  well 
be  eaten,  and  she  never  threw  any  thing 
away. 

Then  the  Reindeer  related  his  own  story 
first,  and  afterwards  that  of  little  Gerda  ;  and 
the  Finland  woman  winked  her  eyes,  but 
said  nothing. 

"  You  are  so  clever,"  said  the  Reindeer ; 
"you  can,  I  know,  twist  all  the  winds  of  the 
world  together  in  a  knot.  If  the  seaman  loos- 
ens one  knot,  then  he  has  a  good  wind  ;  if  a 
second,  then  it  blows  pretty  stiffly  ;  if  he  un- 
does the  third  and  fourth,  then  it  rages  so 
that  the  forests  are  upturned.     Will  you  give 


THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

the  little  maiden  a  potion,  that  she  may  possess 
the  stjength  of  twelve  men,  and  vanquish  the 
Snow -Queen  ?" 

"  The  strength  of  twelve  men  !"  said  the 
Finland  woman.  "  Much  good  that  would 
be  !"  Then  she  went  to  a  cupboard,  and 
drew  out  a  large  skin  rolled  up.  When  she 
had  unrolled  it,  strange  characters  were  to 
be  seen  written  thereon  ;  and  the  Finland 
woman  read  at  such  a  rate  that  the  perspira- 
tion trickled  down  her  forehead. 

But  the  Reindeer  begged  so  hard  for  little 
Gerda,  and  Gerda  looked  so  imploringly  with 
tearful  eyes  at  the  Finland  woman,  that  she 
winked,  and  drew  the  Reindeer  aside  into  a 
corner,  where  they  whispered  together,  while 
the  animal  got  some  fresh  ice  put  on  his 
head. 

"  'T  is  true  little  Kay  is  at  the  Snow- 
Queen's,  and  finds  every  thing  there  quite  to 
his  taste  ;  and  he  thinks  it  the  very  best 
place  in  the  world  ;  but  the  reason  of  that  is, 
he  has  a  splinter  of  glass  in  his  eye,  and  in 
his  heart.  These  must  be  got  out  first ; 
otherwise  he  will  never  go  back  to  mankind. 


10 


14G  THE    LAPLAND    WOMAN. 

and  the  Snow-Q,ueen  will  retain  her  powei 
over  him." 

"But  can  you  give  little  Gerda  nothing  to 
take  which  will  endue  her  with  power  over 
the  whole  ?" 

"  I  can  give  her  no  more  power  than  what 
she  has  already.  "  Don't  you  see  how  great 
it  is  ?  Don't  you  see  how  men  and  animals 
are  forced  to  serve  her  ;  how  well  she  gets 
through  the  world  barefooted?  She  nmst 
not  hear  of  her  power  from  us  ;  that  power 
lies  in  her  heart,  because  she  is  a  sweet  and 
innocent  child  !  If  she  cannot  get  to  the 
Snow-Q,ueen  by  herself,  and  rid  little  Kay  of 
the  glass,  we  cannot  help  her.  Two  miles 
hence  the  garden  of  the  Sno\v-Q,ueen  begins  ; 
thither  you  may  carry  the  little  girl.  Set  her 
down  by  the  large  bush  with  red  berries, 
standing  in  the  snow  ;  don't  stay  talking,  but 
hasten  back  as  fast  as  possible."  And  now 
the  Finland  woman  placed  little  Gerda  on  the 
Reindeer's  back,  and  off  he  ran  with  all  im- 
aginable speed. 

"  Oh  !  1  have  not  got  my  boots  !  I  have 
not  brought  my  gloves !"  cried  little  Gerda. 
She  remarked   she  was  without  them  from 


THE    SNOW-Q.UEEN.  147 

the  cutting  frost;  but  the  Reindeer  dared  not 
stand  still ;  on  he  ran  till  he  came  to  the 
great  bush  with  the  red  berries,  and  there  he 
set  Geida  down,  kissed  her  month,  while 
large  bright  tears  flowed  from  the  animal's 
eyes,  and  then  back  he  went  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible. There  stood  poor  Gerda  now,  without 
shoes  or  gloves,  in  the  very  middle  of  dread- 
ful icy  Finland. 

She  ran  on  as  fast  as  she  could.  There 
then  came  a  whole  regiment  of  snow-flakes, 
but  they  did  not  fall  from  above,  and  they 
were  quite  bright  and  shining  from  the  Au- 
rora Borealis.  The  flakes  ran  along  the 
ground,  and  the  nearer  they  came  the  larger 
they  grew.  Gerda  well  jemembered  how 
large  and  strange  the  snow-flakes  appeared 
when  she  once  saw  them  through  a  magni- 
fyjng-glass  ;  but  now  they  were  large  and 
terrific  in  another  manner — they  were  all 
alive.  They  were  the  outposts  of  the  Snow- 
Queen.  They  had  the  most  wondrous 
shapes  ;  some  looked  like  large  ugly  porcu- 
pines ;  others  like  snakes  knotted  together, 
with  their  heads  sticking  out ;  and  others, 
again,  like  small   fat  bears,    with  the  hair 


148  THE    LAPLAND    WOMAN. 

Btanding  on  end  :  all  were  of  dazzling  white- 
ness— all  were  living  snow-flakes. 

Little  Gerda  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer. 
The  cold  was  so  intense  that  she  could  see 
her  own  breath,  which  came  like  smoke  out 
of  her  mouth.  It  grew  thicker  and  thicker, 
and  took  the  form  of  little  angels,  that  grew 
more  and  more  when  they  touched  the  earth. 
All  had  helms  on  their  heads,  and  lances  and 
shields  in  their  hands  ;  they  increased  in 
numbers  ;  and  when  Gerda  had  finished  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  she  was  surrounded  by  a 
whole  legion.  They  thrust  at  the  horrid 
snow-flakes  with  their  spears,  so  that  they 
flew  into  a  thousand  pieces ;  and  little  Gerda 
walked  on  bravely  and  in  securit)^  The 
angels  patted  her  hands  and  feet ;  and  then 
she  felt  the  cold  less,  and  went  on  quickly 
towards  the  palace  of  the  Snow-Q,ueen. 

But  now  we  shall  see  how  Kay  fared.  He 
never  thought  of  Gerda,  and  least  of  all  that 
she  was  standing  before  the  palace. 


THE    PALACE  OF  THE  SNOW-CIUEEN.  149 


SEVENTH  STORY. 

WHiT  TOOK  PLACE    IN  THE  PALACE  OF    THE    SNOW- 
QUEEN,  AND  WHAT  HAPPENED    AFTERWARD. 

The  walls  of  the  palace  were  of  driving 
snow,  and  the  windows  and  doors  of  cutting 
winds.  Tliere  were  more  than  a  hundred 
halls  there,  according  as  the  snow  was  driven 
by  the  winds.  The  largest  was  many  miles 
in  extent ;  all  were  lighted  up  by  the  power- 
ful Aurora  Borealis,  and  all  were  so  large,  so 
empty,  so  icy  cold,  and  so  resplendent  !  Mirth 
never  reigned  there  ;  tliere  was  never  even  a 
little  bear-ball,  with  the  storm  for  music, 
while  the  polar  bears  went  on  their  hind- 
legs  and  showed  off  their  steps.  Never  a 
Httle  tea-part}^  of  white  young  lady  fox.'.-  ; 
vast,  cold,  and  empty  were  the  halls  of  the 
Snow-Queen.  The  northern-lights  shone 
with  such  precision  that  one  could  tell  exactly 
when  they  were  at  their  highest  or  lowest 
degree  of  brightness.     In  the  middle  of  tha 


150  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

empty,  endless  hall  of  snow,  was  a  frozen 
lake ;  it  was  cracked  in  a  thousand  pieces, 
but  each  piece  was  so  like  the  other,  that  it 
seemed  the  work  of  a  cunning  artificer.  In 
the  middle  of  this  lake  sat  the  Snow-Q.ueen 
when  she  was  at  home  ;  and  then  she  said  she 
was  sitting  in  the  Mirror  of  Understanding, 
and  that  this  was  the  only  one  and  the  best 
thing  in  the  world. 

Little  Kay  was  quite  blue,  yes  nearly  black 
with  cold  ;  but  he  did  not  observe  it,  for  she 
had  kissed  away  all  feeling  of  cold  from  his 
body,  and  his  heart  was  a  lump  of  ice.  He 
was  dragging  along  some  pointed  flat  pieces 
of  ice,  which  he  laid  together  in  all  pos- 
sible ways,  for  he  wanted  to  make  some- 
thing with  them  ;  just  as  we  have  little  flat 
pieces  of  wood  to  make  geometrical  figures 
with,  called  the  Chinese  Puzzle.  Kay  made 
all  sorts  of  figures,  the  most  complicated,  for 
it  was  an  ice-puzzle  for  the  understanding. 
In  his  eyes  the  figures  were  extraordinarily 
beautiful,  and  of  the  utmost  importance  ;  for 
the  bit  of  glass  which  was  in  his  eye  caused 
this.  He  found  whole  figures  which  repre- 
sented a  written  word  ;  but  he  never  could 


THE  PALACE   OF  THE  SNOW-QUEEN.  15l 

manage  to  represent  just  the  word  he  wantea 
— ^^that  word  was  "  eternity  ;"  and  the  Snow- 
dueen  had  said,  "  If  you  can  discover  that 
figure,  you  shall  be  your  own  master,  and  I 
will  make  you  a  present  of  the  whole  world 
and  a  pair  of  new  skates."  But  he  could 
not  find  it  out. 

"  I  am  going  now  to  warm  lands,"  said 
the  Snow-Q,ueen.  ''  I  must  have  a  look 
down  into  the  black  caldrons."  It  was  the 
volcanoes  Vesuvius  and  Etna  that  she  meant. 
"I  will  just  give  them  a  coating  of  white, 
for  that  is  as  it  ought  to  be  ;  besides,  it  is 
good  for  the  oranges  and  the  grapes."  And 
then  away  she  flew,  and  Kay  sat  quite  alone 
in  the  empty  halls  of  ice  that  were  miles 
long,  and  looked  at  the  blocks  of  ice,  and 
thought  and  thought  till  his  skull  was  al- 
most cracked.  There  he  sat  quite  benumbed 
and  motionless  ;  one  would  have  imagined 
he  was  frozen  to  death. 

Suddenly  little  Gerda  stepped  through  the 
great  portal  into  the  palace.  The  gate 
was  formed  of  cutting  winds ;  but  Gerda  re- 
peated her  evening  prayer,  and  the  winds 
were  laid  as  though    they  slept ;    and    the 


152  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

little  maiden  entered  the  vast,  empty,  cold 
halls.  There  she  beheld  Kay  :  she  lecog 
nised  him,  flew  to  embrace  him,  and  cried 
out,  her  arms  firmly  holding  him  the  while, 
"  Kay,  sweet  little  Kay  !  Have  I  then  found 
you  at  last  ?" 

But  he  sat  quite  still,  benumbed  and  cold. 
Then  little  Gerda  shed  burning  tears  ;  and 
they  fell  on  his  bosom,  they  penetrated  to  his 
heart,  they  thawed  the  lumps  of  ice,  and  con- 
sumed the  splinters  of  the  looking-glass ;  he 
looked  at  her,  and  she  sang  the  hymn  : 

"  The  rose  in  the  valley  is  bloomin°:  so  sweet, 
And  angels  descend  there  the  children  to  greet." 

Hereupon  Kay  burst  into  tears  ;  he  wept 
so  much  that  the  splinte:*  rolled  out  of  his 
eye,  and  he  recognised  her,  and  shouted, 
"Gerda,  sweet  little  Gerda!  where  have  you 
been  so  long?  And  where  have  I  been?" 
He  looked  round  him.  "  How  cold  it  is 
here  !"  said  he ;  "  how  empty  and  cold !" 
And  he  held  fast  by  Gerda,  who  laughed 
and  wept  for  joy.  It  was  so  beautiful,  that 
even  the  blocks  of  ice  danced  about  for  joy  ; 
and  when  they  were  tired  and  laid  themselves 


THE    PALACE  OF  THE  SNOW-aUEEN.  153 

down,  they  formed  exactly  the  letters  which' 
the  Snow-Queen  had  told  him-- to  rind  out ; 
so  now  he  was  his  own  master,  and  he  would 
have  the  whole  world  and  a  pair  of  new 
skates  into  the  bargain. 

Gerda  kissed  his  cheeks,  and  they  grew 
quite  blooming  ;  she  kissed  his  eyes,  and  they 
shone  like  her  own  ;  she  kissed  his  hands 
and  feet,  and  he  was  again  well  and  merry. 
The  Snow-Glueen  might  come  back  as  soon 
as  she  liked ;  there  stood  his  discharge 
written  in  resplendent  masses  of  ice. 

They  took  each  other  by  the  hand,  and 
wandered  forth  out  of  the  large  hall ;  they 
talked  of  their  old  grand-mother,  and  of  the 
roses  upon  the  roof;  and  wherever  they 
went,  the  winds  ceased  raging,  and  the  sun 
burst  forth.  And  when  they  reached  the 
bush  with  the  red  berries,  they  found  the 
Reindeer  waiting  for  them.  He  had  brought 
another,  a  young  one,  with  him,  whose  udder 
was  rilled  with  milk,  which  he  gave  to  the 
little  ones,  and  kissed  their  lips.  They  then 
carried  Kay  and  Gerda, — rirst  to  the  Finland 
woman,  where  they  warmed  themselves  in 
the  warm  room,  and  learned  what  they  wera 


154  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

to  do  on  their  journey  home  ;  and  they  went 
to  the  Lapland  woman,  who  made  some  new 
clothes  for  them  and  repaired  their  sledges. 

The  Reindeer  and  the  young  hind  leaped 
along  beside  them,  and  accompanied  them  to 
the  boundary  of  the  country.  Here  the  first 
vegetation  peeped  forth  ;  here  Kay  and  Gerda 
took  leave  of  the  Lapland  woman.  "  Fare- 
well !  farewell !"  said  they  all.  And  the 
first  green  buds  appeared,  the  first  little  birds 
began  to  chirrup  ;  and  out  of  the  wood  came, 
riding  on  a  magnificent  horse,  which  Gerda 
knew  (it  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  the  golden 
carriage),  a  young  damsel  with  a  bright-red 
cap  on  her  head,  and  armed  with  pistols.  It 
was  the  little  Robber-maiden,  who,  tired  of 
being  at  home,  had  determined  to  make  a 
journey  to  the  north  ;  and  afterwards  in 
another  direction,  if  that  did  not  please  her. 
She  recognised  Gerda  immediately,  and  Gerda 
knew  her  too.     It  was  a  joyful  meeting. 

"  You  are  a  fine  fellow  for  tramping  about," 
said  she  to  little  Kay  ;  "  I  should  like  to  know, 
faith,  if  you  deserve  that  one  should  run 
from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other  for 
your  sake  ?" 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  SNOW-Q.UEEN.   155 

But  Gerda  patted  her  cheeks,  and  inquired 
for  the  Prince  and  Princess. 

"  They  are  gone  abroad,"  said  the  other. 

"  But  the  Raven  ?"  asked  Httle  Gerda. 

"  Oh  !  the  Raven  is  dead,"  answered  she. 
"His  tame  sweetheart  is  a  widow,  and  wears 
a  bit  of  black  worsted  round  her  leg"  ;  she 
laments  most  piteously,  but  it's  all  mere  talk 
and  stuff!  Now  tell  me  what  you've  been 
doing  and  how  you  managed  to  catch  him." 

And  Gerda  and  Kay  both  told  their  story. 

And  "  Schnipp-schnapp-schnurre-basselur- 
re,"  said  the  Robber-maiden  ;  and  she  took 
the  hands  of  each,  and  promised  that  if  she 
should  some  day  pass  through  the  town 
where  they  lived,  she  would  come  and  visit 
them  ;  and  then  away  she  rode.  Kay  and 
Gerda  took  each  other's  hand :  it  was  lovely 
spring  weather,  with  abundance  of  flowers 
and  of  verdure.  The  church-bells  rang,  and 
the  children  recognised  the  high  towers,  and 
the  large  town  :  it  was  that  in  which  they 
dwelt.  They  entered  and  hastened  up  to 
their  grand-mother's  roont,  where  every 
thing  was  standing  as  formerly.  The  clock 
said   "  tick !    tack  !"  and   the  finger   moved 


156  THE    SNOW-aUEEN. 

round  ;  but  as  they  entered,  they  remarked 
that  they  were  now  grown  up.  The  roses  on 
the  leads  hung  blooming  in  at  the  open  win- 
dow ;  there  stood  the  little  children's  chairs, 
and  Kay  and  Gerda  sat  down  on  them,  hold- 
ing each  other  by  the  hand ;  they  both  had  for- 
gotten the  cold  empty  splendor  of  the  Snow- 
Q,ueen,  as  though  it  had  been  a  dream.  The 
grand-mother  sat  in  the  bright  sunshine,  and 
read  aloud  from  the  Bible :  "  Unless  ye  be- 
come as  little  children,  ye  cannot  enter  the 
kingdom  of  heaven." 

And  Kay  and  Gerda  looked  in  each  other's 
eyes,  and  all  at  once  they  understood  the  old 
hymn  : 

"  The  rose  in  the  valley  is  blooming  so  sweet, 


There  sat  the  two  grown-up  persons ; 
grown-up,  and  yet  children ;  children  at  least 
in  heart  ;  and  it  was  summer-time  ;  summer 
glorious  summer ! 


THE  LEAP-FROG. 


FLEA,  a  Grasshopper,  and  a 
Leap-frog  once  wanted  to  see 
which  could  jump  highest ; 
and  they  invited  the  whole 
world,  and  every  body 
else  besides  who  chose 
to  come,  to  see  the  fes- 
tival.    Three  famous  jumpers 
were  they,  as  every  one  would  say, 
when   they  all  met  together  in  the  room. 

"  I  will  give  my  daughter  to  him  who 
jumps  highest,"  exclaimed  the  King;  "  for  it 
is  not  so  amusing  where  there  is  no  prize  to 
jump  for." 

The  Flea  was  the  first  to  step  forward. 

He  had  exquisite  manners,  and  bowed  to  the 

vjompany  on  all  sides  ;  for  he  had  noble  blood, 

and  was,  moreover,  accustomed  to  the  society 

dd  157 


158  THE    LEAP-FROG. 

of  man  alone  ;  and  that  makes  a  great  differ 
ence. 

Then  came  the  Grasshopper.  He  was 
considerably  heavier,  but  he  wa?  well-man- 
nered, and  wore  a  green  uniform,  which  he 
had  by  right  of  birth  ;  he  said,  moreover, 
that  he  belonged  to  a  very  ancient  Egyptian 
family,  and  that  in  the  house  where  he  then 
was,  he  was  thought  much  of.  The  fact 
was,  he  had  been  just  brought  out  of  the 
fields,  and  put  in  a  pasteboard  house,  three 
stories  high,  all  made  of  court-cards,  with  the 
colored  side  inwards ;  and  doors  and  win- 
dows cut  out  of  the  body  of  the  Q.ueen  of 
Hearts.  "1  sing  so  well,"  said  he,  "that  six- 
teen native  grasshoppers  who  have  chirped 
from  infancy,  and  yet  got  no  house  built  of 
cards  to  live  in,  grew  thinner  than  they  were 
before  for  sheer  vexation  when  they  heard 
me." 

It  was  thus  tliat  the  t'lea  and  the  Grass- 
hopper gave  an  account  of  themselves,  and 
thought  they  were  quite  good  enough  to 
marry  a  Princess. 

The  Leap-frog  said  nothing ;  but  people 
gave  it  as  their  opinion,   that  he  therefore 


THE    LEAP-FROG.  159 

thought  the  more ;  and  when  the  house-dog 
snuffed  at  him  with  his  nose,  he  confessed 
the  Leap-frog  was  of  good  family.  The  old 
councillor,  w^ho  had  had  three  orders  given 
him  to  make  him  hold  his  tongue,  asserted 
that  the  Leap-frog  was  a  prophet ;  for  that 
one  could  see  on  his  back,  if  there  would  be 
a  severe  or  mild  winter,  and  that  was  what 
one  could  not  see  even  on  the  back  of  the 
man  w^ho  writes  the  almanac. 

"I  say  nothing,  it  is  true,"  exclaimed  the 
King ;  "  but  I  have  my  own  opinion,  notwith-. 
standing." 

Now  the  trial  was  to  take  place.  The 
Flea  jumped  so  high  that  nobody  could  see 
where  he  went  to ;  so  they  all  asserted  he 
had  not  jumped  at  all ;  and  that  was  dishon- 
orable. 

The  Grasshopper  jumped  only  half  as 
high ;  but  he  leaped  into  the  King's  face, 
who  said  that  was  ill-mannered. 

The  Leap-frog  stood  still  for  a  long  time 
lost  in  thought ;  it  was  believed  at  last  he 
would  not  jump  at  all. 

"  I  only  hope  he  is  not  unwell,"  said  the 
house-dog  ;  when,  pop  !  he  made  a  jump  all 


160  THE    LEAP-FROG. 

on  one  side  into  the  lap  of  the  Princess,  who 
was  sitting  on  a  Httle  golden  stool  close  by. 

Hereupon  the  King  said,  *' There  is  no- 
thing abov^e  my  daughter  ;  therefore  to  bound 
up  to  her  is  the  highest  jump  that  can  be 
made  ;  but  for  this,  one  must  possess  under- 
standing, and  the  Leap-frog  has  shown  that 
he  has  understanding.  He  is  brave  and  in- 
tellectual." 

And  so  he  won  the  Princess. 

"  It's  all  the  same  to  me,"  said  the  Flea ; 
"she  may  have  the  old  Leap-frog,  for  all  I 
care.  I  jumped  the  highest;  but  in  this 
world  merit  seldom  meets  its  reward.  A  fine 
exterior  is  what  people  look  at  now-a-days." 

The  Flea  then  went  into  foreign  service, 
where,  it  is  said,  he  was  killed. 

The  Grasshopper  sat  without  on  a  green 
bank,  and  reflected  on  worldly  things  ;  and 
he  said  too,  "  Yes,  a  fine  exterior  is  every 
thing — a  fine  exterior  is  what  people  care 
about."  And  then  he  began  chirping  his 
peculiar  melancholy  song,  from*  which  we 
have  taken  this  history  ;  and  which  may, 
very  possibly,  be  all  untrue,  although  it  does 
Btand  here  printed  in  black  and  white. 


apart  K»«, 
THIRTEEN    NEW   STORIES; 

A.N  D 

ADDRESS  TO  YOUNG  READERS. 


THE   OLD   HOUSE. 


^pN  the  street, 
up  there,  was 
an  old,  a  very 
old  house, — 
it  was  almost  three 
hundred  years  old, 
for  that   might  be  known 
by  reading  the  great  beam 
on  which  the  date  of  the 
year  was  carved  :  together 
with  tulips  and  hop-binds 
there    were   whole   verses 
spelled  as  in  former  times,  and 
over  every  window  was  a  dis- 
torted   face    cut    out     in    the 
beam.     The  one  story  stood  forward  a  great 
9 


10  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

way  over  the  other ;  and  directly  under  the 
eaves  was  a  leaden  spout  with  a  dragon's 
head  ;  the  rain-water  should  have  run  out  of 
the  mouth,  but  it  ran  out  of  the  belly,  for 
there  was  a  hole  in  the  spout. 

All  the  other  houses  in  the  street  were  so 
new  and  so  neat,  with  large  window-panes 
and  smooth  walls,  one  could  easily  see  that 
they  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  old 
house  :  they  certainly  thought,  "  How  long 
is  that  old  decayed  thing  to  stand  here  as  a 
spectacle  in  the  street  ?  And  then  the  pro- 
"ecting  windows  stand  so  far  out,  that  no 
one  can  see  from  our  windows  what  hap- 
pens in  that  direction  !  The  steps  are  as 
broad  as  those  of  a  palace,  and  as  high  as  to 
a  church  tower.  The  iron  railings  look 
just  like  the  door  to  an  old  family  vault, 
and  then  they  have  brass  tops, — that's  so 
stupid !" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  were  also 
new  and  neat  houses,  and  they  thought  just 
as  the  others  did ;  but  at  the  window  oppo- 
site the  old  house  there  sat  a  little  boy  with 
fresh  rosy  cheeks  and  bright  beaming  eyes  : 
he  certainly  liked  the  old  house  best,  and 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  11 

that  both  in  sunshine  and  moonshine.  And 
when  he  looked  across  at  the  wall  where  the 
mortar  had  fallen  out,  he  could  sit  and  find 
out  there  the  strangest  figures  imaginable ; 
exactly  as  the  street  had  appeared  before, 
with  steps,  projecting  Avindows,  and  pointed 
gables ;  he  could  see  soldiers  with  halberds, 
and  spouts  where  the  water  ran,  like  dragons 
and  serpents.  That  was  a  house  to  look  at ; 
and  there  lived  an  old  man,  who  wore  plush 
breeches;  and  lie  had  a  coat  with  large  brass 
buttons,  and  a  wig  that  one  could  see  was  a 
real  wig.  Every  morning  there  came  an  old 
fellow  to  him  who  put  his  rooms  in  order, 
and  went  on  errands  ;  otherwise,  the  old  man 
in  the  plush  breeches  was  quite  alone  in  the 
old  house.  Now  and  then  he  came  to  the 
window  and  looked  out,  and  the  little  boy 
nodded  to  him,  and  the  old  man  nodded 
again,  and  so  they  became  acquaintances, 
and  then  they  were  friends,  although  they 
had  never  spoken  to  each  other, — but  that 
made  no  difference.  The  little  boy  heard 
fds  parents  say,  "The  old  man  opposite  is 
'^ery  well  off,  but  he  is  oo  very,  very  lonely  !" 
The  Sunday  fcllowing,  the  little  boy  took 


12  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

Bomething,  and  wrapped  it  up  in  a  piece  of 
papei-j  went  down  stairs,  and  stood  in  the 
doorway ;  and  when  the  man  who  went  on 
errands  came  past,  he  said  to  him — 

"  I  say,  master !  will  you  give  this  to  the 
old  man  over  the  way  from  me  ?  I  have  two 
pewter  soldiers — this  is  one  of  them,  and  he 
shall  have  it,  for  1  know  he  is  so  very,  very 
lonely." 

And  the  old  errand  man  looked  quite 
pleased,  nodded,  and  took  the  pewter  soldier 
over  to  the  old  house.  Afterwards  there 
came  a  message ;  it  was  to  ask  if  the  little 
boy  himself  had  not  a  wish  to  come  over  and 
pay  a  visit ;  and  so  he  got  permission  of  his 
parents,  and  then  went  over  to  the  old  house. 

And  the  brass  balls  on  the  iron  railings 
shone  much  brighter  than  ever ;  one  would 
have  thought  they  were  polished  on  account 
of  the  visit ;  and  it  was  as  if  the  carved-out 
trumpeters — for  there  were  trumpeters,  who 
stood  in  tulips,  carved  out  on  the  door — b'ew 
with  all  their  might,  their  cheeks  appeared 
so  much  rounder  than  before.  Yes,  they 
blew — "  Trateratra  !  the  little  boy  comes 
trateratra !" — and  then  the  door  opened. 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  13 

The  whole  passage  was  hung  with  por- 
craits  of  knights  in  armor,  and  ladies  in 
silken  gowns ;  and  the  armor  rattled,  and 
tiir:  silken  gowns  rustled  !  And  then  there 
was  a  flight  of  stairs  which  went  a  good  way 
upwards,  and  a  little  way  downwards,  and 
then  one  came  on  a  balcony  which  was  in  a 
very  dilapidated  state,  sure  enough,  with 
large  holes  and  long  crevices,  but  grass  grew 
there  and  leaves  out  of  them  altogether,  for 
the  whole  balcony  outside,  the  yard,  and  the 
walls,  were  overgrown  with  so  much  green 
stuff,  that  it  looked  like  a  garden  ;  but  it  was 
only  a  balcony.  Here  stood  old  flower-pots 
with  faces  and  asses'  ears,  and  the  flowers 
grew  just  as  they  liked.  One  of  the  pots  was 
quite  overrun  on  all  sides  with  pinks,  that  is 
to  say,  with  the  green  part ;  shoot  stood  by 
shoot,  and  it  said  quite  distinctl}^,  "  The  air 
has  cherished  me,  the  sun  has  kissed  me,  and 
promised  me  a  little  flower  on  Sunday ! — a 
little  flower  on  Sunday  !" 

And  then  they  entered  a  chamber  where 
the  walls  were  covered  with  hog's  leather, 
and  printed  with  gold  flowers. 


14  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 


> 


"  The  gilding  decays, 
But  hog's  leather  stays!" 


paid  the  walls. 

And  there  stood  easy  chairs,  with  such 
high  backs,  and  so  carved  out,  and  with  arms 
on  both  sides.  "  Sit  down  !  sit  down  !"  said 
they.  "  Ugh !  how  I  creak ;  now  I  shall 
certainly  get  the  gout,  like  the  old  clothes- 
press,  ugh  !" 

And  then  the  little  boy  came  into  the  room 
where  the  projecting  windows  were,  and 
where  the  old  man  sat. 

"I  thank  you  for  the  pewter  soldier,  my 
Httle  friend  !"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  I  thank 
you  because  you  come  over  to  me." 

" Thankee !  thankee !"  or  "cranky !  cranky !" 
sounded  from  all  the  furniture ;  there  was  so 
much  of  it,  that  each  article  stood  in  the 
other's  way,  to  get  a  look  at  the  little  boy. 

In  the  middle  of  the  wall  hung  a  picture 
representing  a  beautiful  lady,  so  young,  so 
glad,  but  dressed  quite  as  in  former  times, 
with  clothes  that  stood  quite  stiff,  and  with 
pov/der  in  her  hair ;  she  neither  said  "  thankee, 
thankee  !"  nor  "  cranky,  cranky  '"  but  looked 
with  her  mild    eyes    at   the  littie  boy,  who 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  15 

directly  asked  the  old  man,  "  Where  did  you 
get  her?" 

"Yonder,  at  the  broker's,"  said  the  old 
man,  "where  there  are  so  many  pictures 
hanging.  No  one  knows  or  cares  about 
them,  for  they  are  all  of  them  buried ;  but  I 
knew  her  in  by-gone  days,  and  now  she  has 
been  dead  and  gone  these  fifty  years !" 

Under  the  picture,  in  a  glazed  frame, 
there  hung  a  bouquet  of  withered  flowers  ; 
they  were  almost  fifty  years  old ;  they 
looked  so  very  old  ! 

The  pendulum  of  the  great  clock  went  to 
and  fro,  and  the  hands  turned,  and  every 
thing  in  the  room  became  still  older ;  but 
they  did  not  observe  it. 

"  They  say  at  home,"  said  the  little  boy, 
"  that  you  are  so  very,  very  lonely  !" 

"Oh!"  said  he,  "the  old  thoughts,  with 
what  they  may  bring  with  them,  come  and 
visit  me,  and  now  you  also  come !  I  am 
very  well  off!" 

Then  he  took  a  book  with  pictures  in  it 
down  from  the  shelf;  there  were  whole 
long  processions  and  pageants,  with  the 
strangest  characters,  which   one  never  sees 


t6  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

now-a-days ;  soldiers  like  the  knave  of 
clubs,  and  citizens  with  waving  flags :  the 
tailors  had  theirs,  with  a  pair  of  shears  held 
oy  two  lions, — and  the  shoemakers  theirs, 
without  boots,  but  with  an  eagle  that  had 
two  heads,  for  the  shoemakers  must  have 
everything  so  that  they  can  say,  it  is  a 
pair  ! — Yes,  that  was  a  picture  book  ! 

The  old  man  now  went  into  the  other 
room  to  fetch  preserves,  apples,  and  nuts; — 
yes,  it  was  delightful  over  there  in  the  old 
house. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer !"  said  the 
pewter  soldier,  who  sat  on  the  drawers ;  "  it 
is  so  lonely  and  melancholy  here  !  but  when 
one  has  been  in  a  family  circle  one  cannot 
accustom  oneself  to  this  life  !  I  cannot  bear  it 
any  longer  !•  the  whole  day  is  so  long,  and  the 
evenings  are  still  longer  !  here  it  is  not  at  all 
as  it  is  over  the  way  at  your  home,  where 
your  father  and  mother  spoke  so  pleasantly, 
and  where  you  and  all  your  sweet  children 
made  such  a  delightful  noise.  Nay,  how 
lonely  the  old  man  is  ! — do  you  think  that  he 
gets  kisses  ?  do  you  think  he  gets  mild  eyes, 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  17 

or  a  Christmas  tree? — He  will  get  nothing 
but  a  grave  . — I  can  bear  it  no  longer  !" 

"  You  must  not  let  it  grieve  you  so  nuich," 
said  the  little  boy  ;  "  I  find  it  so  very  delightful 
here,  and  then  all  the  old  thoughts,  with 
what  they  may  bring  with  them,  they  come 
and  visit  here." 

"  Yes,  it's  all  very  well,  but  I  see  nothing 
of  them,  and  I  don't  know  them !"  said  the 
pewter  soldier,  "  I  cannot  bear  it !" 

"  But  you  must !"  said  the  little  boy. 

Then  in  came  the  old  man  with  the  most 
pleased  and  happy  face,  the  most  delicious 
preserves,  apples,  and  nuts,  and  so  the  little 
boy  thought  no  more  about  the  pewter  sol- 
dier. 

The  little  boy  returned  home  happy  and 
pleased,  and  weeks  and  days  passed  away, 
and  nods  were  made  to  the  old  house,  and 
from  the  old  house,  and  then  the  little  boy 
went  over  there  again. 

The  carved  trumpeters  blew,  "  trateratra  ! 
there  is  the  little  boy !  trateratra !"  and  the 
swords  and  armor  on  the  knights'  portraits 
rattled,  and  the  silk  gowns  rustled  ;  the  hog's- 
leather  spoke,  and  the  old  chairs  had  the  gout 
2 


IS  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

in  their  leg's  and  rheumatism  in  their  backs ; 
Ugh-! — it  was  exactly  like  the  first  time,  for 
over  there  one  day  and  hour  was  just  like 
another. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it !"  said  the  pewter  soldier, 
"  I  have  shed  pewter  tears  !  it  is  too  melan- 
choly !  rather  let  me  go  to  the  wars  and  lose 
ai*ms  and  legs  !  it  would  at  least  be  a  change. 
I  cannot  bear  it  longer  ! — Now,  I  know  what 
it  is  to  have  a  visit  from  one's  old  thoughts, 
with  what  they  may  bring  with  them  !  I 
have  had  a  visit  from  mine,  and  you  may  be 
sure  it  is  no  pleasant  thing  in  the  end  ;  I  was 
at  last  about  to  jump  down  from  the  drawers. 

"  I  saw  you  all  over  there  at  home  so  dis- 
tinctly, as  if  you  really  were  here ;  it  was 
again  that  Sunday  morning  ;  all  you  children 
stood  before  the  table  and  sung  your  Psalms^ 
as  you  do  every  morning.  You  stood  devoutly 
with  folded  hands  ;  and  father  and  mother 
were  just  as  pious  ;  and  then  the  door  was 
opened,  and  little  sister  Mary,  wlio  is  not  two 
years  old  yet,  and  who  always  dance?  when 
she  hears  music  or  singing,  of  whatever  kind 
it  may  be,  was  put  into  the  room — thougli  she 
ought  not  to  have  been  there — and  then  she 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  19        j 

I 

began  to  dance,  but  could  not  keep  time,  be-  i 
cause  the  tones  were  so  long ;  and  then  she  ■ 
stood,  first  on  the  one  leg,  and  bent  her  head  \ 
forwards,  and  then  on  the  other  leg,  and  bent  I 
her  head  forwards — but  all  would  not  do.  You  | 
stood  very  seriously  all  toget"her,  although  ' 
it  was  difficult  enougli ;  but  I  laughed  to  my-  i 
self,  and  then  I  fell  off  the  table,  and  got  a  I 
bump,  which  I  have  still — for  it  was  not  right  I 
of  me  to  laugh.  But  the  whole  now  passes  | 
before  me  again  in  thought,  and  everything  i 
that  I  have  lived  to  see  ;  and  these  are  the  old 
thoughts,  with  what  they  may  bring  with  them. 

"Tell  me  if  you  still  sing  on  Sundays? 
Tell  me  something  about  little  Mary !  and 
how  my  comrade,  the  other  pewter  soldier, 
lives  !  Yes,  he  is  happy  enough,  that's  sure  ! 
I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer  !" 

"  You  are  given  away  as  a  present !"  said 
the  little  boy  ;  "  you  must  remain.  Can  you 
not  understand  that  ?" 

The  old  man  now  came  with  a  drawer,  in 
which  there  was  much  to  be  seen,  both  "  tin 
boxes"  and  "balsam  boxes,"  old  cards,  so 
large  and  so  gilded,  such  as  one  never  sees 


20  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

them  now.  And  several  drawers  were  opened, 
and  the  piano  was  opened  ;  it  had  landscapes 
on  the  inside  of  the  lid,  and  it  was  so  hoarse 
when  the  old  man  played  on  it  !  and  then  he 
hummed  a  song. 

"  Yes,  she  could  sing  that !"  said  he,  and 
nodded  to  the  portrait,  which  he  had  bought 
at  the  broker's,  and  the  old  man's  eyes  shone 
so  bright ! 

"  I  will  go  to  the  wars !  I  will  go  to  the 
wars  !"  shouted  the  pewter  soldier  as  loud  as 
he  could,  and  threw  hunself  off  the  drawers 
right  down  on  the  floor. 

What  became  of  him?  The  old  man 
sought,  and  the  little  boy  sought ;  he  was 
away,  and  he  stayed  away. 

"  I  shall  find  him  ! "  said  the  old  man  ;  but 
he  never  found  him.  The  floor  was  too  open 
— the  pewter  soldier  had  fallen  through  a 
crevice,  and  there  he  lay  as  in  an  open  tomb. 

That  day  passed,  and  the  little  boy  went 
home,  and  that  week  passed,  and  several 
weeks  too.  The  windows  were  quite  frozen, 
the  little  boy  was  obliged  to  sit  and  breathe 
on  them  to  get  a  peep-hole  over  to  the  old 
house,  and  there  the  snow  had  been  blown 


THE    OLD    HOUSE,  21 

into  all  the  carved  work  and  inscriptions;  it 
lay  quite  up  over  the  steps,  just  as  if  there 
was  no  one  at  home; — nor  was  there  any 
one  at  home — the  old  man  was  dead  ! 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  hearse  seen 
befoie  the  door,  and  he  was  borne  into  it  in 
his  coffin  :  he  was  now  to  go  out  into  the 
country,  to  lie  in  his  grave.  He  was  driven 
out  there,  but  no  one  followed ;  all  his  friends 
were  dead,  and  the  little  boy  kissed  his  hand 
to  the  coffin  as  it  was  driven  away. 

Some  days  afterwards  there  was  an  auction 
at  the  old  house,  and  the  httle  boy  saw  from 
his  window  how  they  carried  the  old  knights 
and  the  old  ladies  away,  the  flower-pots  with 
the  long  ears,  the  old  chairs,  and  the  old 
clothes-presses.  Something  came  here,  and 
something  came  there  ;  the  portrait  of  her 
who  had  been  found  at  the  broker's  came  to 
the  broker's  agahi ;  and  there  it  hung,  for  no 
one  knew  her  more — no  one  cared  about  the 
old  picture. 

In  the  spring  they  pulled  the  house  down, 
for,  as  people  said,  it  was  a  ruin.  One  could 
see  from  the  street  right  into  the  room  with 
the  hog's-leather  hanging,  which  was  slashed 


22 


THE    OLD    HOUSE. 


and   torn  ;  and  the  green  grass  and  leaves 

about  the  balcony  hung  quite  wild  about  the 

falling  beams. — -And  then  it  was  put  to  rights. 

"  That  was  a  relief,"  said  the  neighboring 

houses. 

#         *         *         #         #         #         * 

A  fine  house  was  built  there,  with  large 
windows,  and  smooth  white  walls ;  but  be- 
fore it,  where  the  old  house  had  in  fact  stood, 
was  a  little  garden  laid  out,  and  a  wild  grape- 
vine ran  up  the  wall  of  the  neighboring  house. 
Before  the  garden  there  was  a  large  iron  rail- 
ing with  an  iron  door,  it  looked  quite  splendid, 
and  people  stood  still  and  peeped  in,  and  the 
sparrows  hung  by  scores  in  the  vine,  and 
chattered  away  at  each  other  as  well  as  they 
could,  but  it  Avas  not  about  the  old  house,  for 
they  could  not  remember  it,  so  many  years 
had  passed, — so  many  that  the  little  boy  had 
grown  up  to  a  whole  man,  yes,  a  clever  man, 
and  a  pleasure  to  his  parents ;  and  he  had 
just  been  married,  and,  together  with  his  little 
wife,  had  come  to  live  in  the  house  here, 
where  the  garden  was  ;  and  he  stood  by  her 
there  whilst  she  planted  a  field- flower  thai 
she  found  so  pretty  ;  she  planted  it  with  hei 


THE    OLD    HOUcTK.  23 

little  hand,  and  pressed  the  earth  around  it 
with  her  fingers.  Oh  !  what  was  that  ?  She 
had  stuck  herself.  There  sat  something 
pointed,  straight  out  of  the  soft  mould. 

It  was yes,  guess  ! — it  was  the  pewter 

soldier,  he  that  Avas  lost  up  at  the  old  man's, 
and  had  tumbled  and  turned  about  amongst 
the  timber  and  the  rubbish,  and  had  at  last 
laid  for  many  years  in  the  ground. 

The  young  wife  wiped  the  dirt  off  the  sol- 
dier, first  with  a  green  leaf,  and  then  with 
her  fine  handkerchief — it  had  such  a  delight- 
ful smell,  that  it  was  to  the  pewter  soldier 
just  as  if  he  had  awaked  fiom  a  trance. 

"  Let  me  see  him,"  said  the  young  man. 
He  laughed,  and  then  skook  his  head.  "  Nay, 
it  cannot  be  he  ;  but  he  reminds  me  of  a 
story  about  a  pewter  soldier  which  I  had 
when  I  was  a  little  boy  !"  And  then  he  told 
his  wife  about  the  old  house,  and  the  old  man, 
and  about  the  pewter  soldier  that  he  sent  over 
to  him  because  he  was  so  very,  very  lonely ; 
and  he  told  it  as  correctly  as  it  had  really 
been,  so  that  the  tears  cam6  into  the  eyes  of 
his  young  wife,  on  account  of  the  old  house 
and  the  old  man. 

hh 


24  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

"  It  may  possibly  be,  however,  that  it  is  the 
same  pewter  sol  Jier  !"  said  she,  "  I  will  take 
care  of  it,  and  remember  all  that  you  have 
told  me  ;  hut  yoii  must  show  me  the  old  man's 
grave ! " 

"  But  I  do  not  know  it,"  said  he,  "  and  no 
one  knows  it !  all  his  friends  were  dead,  no 
one  took  care  of  it,  and  I  was  then  a  little 
boy!" 

"  How  very,  very  lonely  he  must  have 
been  !"  said  slie. 

"  Very,  very  lonely  T'  said  tlie  pewter  sol- 
dier ;  "  but  it  is  delightful  not  to  be  forgotten  1" 

"  Delightful !"  shouted  sometlnng  close  by  ; 
but  no  one,  except  the  pewter  soldier,  saw 
that  it  was  a  piece  of  the  hog's-leaiher  hang- 
ings;  it  liad  lost  all  its  gilding,  it  looked  like 
a  |)iece  of  wet  clay,  but  it  had  an  opinion, 
and  it  gave  it : 

♦'  The  gilding  decays, 
But  hog's  leather  stays  f** 

This  the  pewter  soldier  did  not  believe. 


THE   DROP   OF   WATER. 


HAT  a  magnifying 
glass  is,  you  surely 
know — such  a  round 
sort  of  spectacle-glass 
that  makes  eveiy- 
thing  full  a  hundred 
times  larger  than  it 
really  is.  When  one 
holds  it  before  the 
eye,  and  looks  at  a  drop  of  water  out  of  the 
pond,  then  one  sees  above  a  thousand  strange 
creatures.  It  looks  almost  like  a  whole 
plateful  of  shrimps  springing  about  among 
each  other,  and  they  are  so  ravenous,  they 
tear  one  another's  arms  and  legs,  tails  and 
sides,  and  yet  they  are  glad  and  pleased  in 
their  way. 

25 


26  THE    DROP    OF    WATER. 

Now,  there  was  once  an  old  man,  who  was 
called  by  every  body  Creep-and-Crawl ;  foi 
that  was  his  name.  He  would  always  make 
the  best  out  of  everything,  and  when  he 
could  not  make  anything  out  of  it,  he  re? 
sorted  to  witchcraft. 

Now,  one  day  he  sat  and  held  his  magni- 
fying glass  before  his  eye,  and  looked  at  a 
drop  of  water  that  was  taken  out  of  a  httle 
pool  in  the  ditch.  What  a  creeping  and 
crawling  was  there !  all  the  thousands  of 
small  creatures  hopped  and  jumped  about, 
pulled  one  another,  and  pecked  one  another. 

"  But  this  is  abominable !"  said  Creep-and- 
Crawl,  "  Can  one  not  get  them  to  live  in  peace 
and  quiet,  and  each  mind  his  own  business  ?" 
And  he  thought  and  thought,  but  he  could 
come  to  no  conclusion,  and  so  he  was  obliged 
to  conjure.  "I  must  give  them  a  color,  that 
they  may  be  more  discernible  !"  said  he  ;  and 
so  he  poured  something  like  a  little  drop  of 
red  wine  into  the  drop  of  water,  but  it  was 
bewitched  blood  from  the  lobe  of  the  ear — 
the  very  finest  sort  for  a  penny  ;  and~tlTen  all 
the    strange    creatures    became    rose-colored 


THE    DROP    OF    WATER.  27 

over  the  whole  body.     It  looked  like  a  whole 
town  of  naked  savasres. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  said  anothei 
old  wizard,  who  had  no  name,  and  that  was 
just  the  best  of  it. 

"  Why,"  said  Creep-and-Crawl,  "  if  you  can . 
guess  what  it  is,  1  will  make  you  a  present  of 
IT;  but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  find  out  when  one 
does  not  know  it!" 

The  wizard  who  hnd  no  name  looked 
through  the  magnitymg  glass,  li  actually 
appeared  like  a  whole  town,  where  all  the 
inhabitants  ran  about  without  clothes  !  it  was 
terrible,  but  still  more  terrible  to  see  how  the 
one  knocked  and  pushed  the  other,  bit  each 
otheF,  and  drew  one  another  about.  What 
was  undermost  should  be  topmost,  and  what 
was  topmost  should  be  undermost ! — See 
there,  now !  his  leg  is  longer  than  mine ! — 
whip  it  off,  and  away  with  it !  There  is  one 
that  has  a  little  lump  behind  the  ear,  a  little 
innocent  lump,  but  it  pains  him,  and  so  it 
Ehall  pain  him  still  more !  And  they  pecked 
at  it,  and  they  dragged  him  about,  and  they 
ate  him,  and  all  on  account  of  the  little  lump. 
'There  sat  one  as  still  as  a  little  maid,  who 


28  THE    DROP    OF    WATER. 

only  wished  for  peace  and  quietness,  but  she 
must  be  brought  out  and  they  dragged  her, 
and  they  pulled  her,  and  they  devoured  her  ! 

"  It  is  quite  amusing  !"  said  the  wizard. 

"  Yes  ;  but  what  do  you  think  it  is  ?"  asked 
Creep-and-Crawl.     "  Can  you  find  it  out !" 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  see,"  said  the  other,  "  it 
is  some  great  city,  they  all  resemble  each 
other.     A  ffreat  city  it  is,  that's  sure  !" 

"  It  is  djtch-water  !"  said  Creep-and-Crawl 


THE   HAPPY   FAMILY. 


EALLY,  the  largest 
green  leaf  in  this  coun- 
try is  a  dock-leaf;  if 
one  holds  it  before 
one,  ii  is  like  a  whole 
apron,  and  if  one  holds 
it  over  one's  head  in 
rainy  weather,  it  is  almost  as 
good  as  an  umbrella,  for  it  is  so 
immensely  large.  The  burdock 
never  grows  alone,  but  where 
there  grows  one  there  always 
grow  several :  it  is  a  great  delight,  and  all 
this  delightfulness  is  snails'  food.  The  great 
white  snails  which  persons  of  quality  in  for- 
mer times  made  fricassees  of,  ate,  and  said, 
"  Hem,  hem  !  how  delicious !"  for  they  though i 
20 


30  THE    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

it  tasted  so  delicate — lived  on  dock  leaves, 
and  therefore  burdock  seeds  were  sown. 

Now,  there  was  an  old  nanor-house,  where 
they  no  longer  ate  snails,  they  were  quite  ex- 
tinct ;  but  the  burdocks  were  not  extinct,  they 
grew  and  grew  all  over  the  walks  and  all  the 
beds ;  they  could  not  get  the  mastery  over 
them — it  was  a  whole  forest  of  burdocks. 
Here  and  there  stood  an  apple  and  a  plumb- 
tree,  or  else  one  never  would  have  thought 
that  it  was  a  garden  ;  all  was  burdocks,  and 
there  lived  the  two  last  venerable  old  snails. 

They  themselves  knew  not  how  old  they 
were,  but  they  could  remember  very  well  that 
there  had  been  many  more ;  that  they  were 
of  a  family  from  foreign  lands,  and  that  for 
them  and  theirs  the  whole  forest  was  planted. 
They  had  never  been  outside  it,  but  they 
knew  that  there  was  still  something  more  in 
the  world,  which  w^as  called  the  manor-house, 
and  that  there  they  were  boiled,  and  then 
they  became  black,  and  were  then  placed  on 
a  silver  dish ;  but  what  happened  further 
they  knew  not ;  or,  in  fact,  what  it  was  to  be 
boiled,  and  to  lie  on  a  silver  dish,  they  could 
act  possibly  imagine ;  but  it  was  said  to  be 


THE    HAPPY    FAMILY.  31 

delightful,  and  particularly  genteel.  Neither 
the  chafers,  the  toads,  nor  the  earth-worms, 
whom  they  asked  about  it  could  give  them 
any  information, — none  of  thein  had  been 
boiled  or  laid  on  a  silver  dish. 

The  old  white  snails  were  the  first  persons 
of  distinction  in  the  world,  that  they  knew ; 
the  forest  was  planted  for  their  sake,  and  the 
manor-house  was  there  that  they  might  be 
boiled  and  laid  on  a  silver  dish. 

Now  they  lived  a  very  lonely  and  happy 
life  ;  and  as  they  had  no  children  themselves, 
they  had  adopted  a  little  common  snail, 
which  they  brought  up  as  their  own  ;  but  the 
little  one  would  not  grow,  for  he  was  of  a 
common  family ;  but  the  old  ones,  especially 
Dame  Mother  Snail,  thought  they  could  ob- 
serve how  he  increased  in  size,  and  she  beo^o^ed 
father,  if  he  could  not  see  it,  that  he  would  at 
least  feel  the  little  snail's  shell ;  and  then  he 
felt  it,  and  found  the  good  dame  was  right. 

One  day  there  was  a  heavy  storm  of  rain. 

"Hear  how  it  beats  like  a  drum  on  the 
dock  leaves  P  said  Father  Snail. 

"  There  are  also  rain-drops  !"  said  Mother 
Snail ;  "  and  now  the  rain  pours  right  down 

ii 


32  /THE    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

the  Stalk !  You  will  see  that  it  will  be  wel 
here !  I  am  very  happy  to  think  that  we 
have  our  good  house,  and  the  little  one  has 
his  also !  There  is  more  done  for  us  than 
for  all  other  creatures,  sure  enough  ;  but  can 
you  not  see  that  we  are  folks  of  quality  in  the 
world  ?  We  are  provided  with  a  house  from 
our  birth,  and  the  burdock  forest  is  planted 
for  our  sakes  !  I  should  like  to  know  how  far 
it  extends,  and  what  there  is  outside  !" 

"  There   is   nothing  at   all,"   said  Father, 
Snail.     "  No  place  can  be  better  than  ours, 

/nd  I  have  nothing  to  wish  for  !" 
"  Yes,"  said  the  dame.  "  I  would  willing- 
ly go  to  the  manor-house,  be  boiled,  and  laid 
on  a  silver  dish  ;  all  our  forefathers  have  been 
treated  so  ;  there  is  something  extiaordinary 
in  it,  you  may  be  sure  !" 

"  The  manor-house  has  most  likely  fallen 
to  ruin  !"  said  Father  Snail,  "  or  the  burdocks 
have  grown  up  over  it,  so  that  they  cannot 
come  out.  There  need  not,  however,  be  any 
haste  about  that ;  but  you  are  always  in  such 
a  tremendous  hurry,  and  the  little  one  is  be 
ginning  to  be  the  same.     Has  he  not  been 


THE    HAPPY    FAMILY.  33 

creeping  up  that  stalk  these  three  days  ?  It 
gives  me  a  headache  when  I  look  up  to  him  !'" 

"You  must  not  scold  him,"  said  Mother 
Snail;  "he  creeps  so  carefully;  he  will 
afford  us  much  pleasure — and  we  have  noth- 
ing but  him  to  live  for !  But  have  you  not 
thought  of  it  ? — where  shall  we  get  a  wife  for 
him  ?  Do  you  not  think  that  there  are  some 
of  our  species  at  a  great  distance  in  the  inte- 
rior of  the  burdock  forest  ?" 

"  Black  snails,  I  dare  say,  there  are  enough 
of,"  said  the  old  one — "  black  snails  without  a 
house — but  they  are  so  common,  and  so  con- 
ceited. But  we  might  give  the  ants  a  com- 
mission to  look  out  for  us ;  they  run  to  and 
fro  as  if  they  had  something  to  do,  and  they 
certainly  know  of  a  wife  for  our  little  snail !" 

"I  know  one,  sure  enough — the  most 
charming  one !"  said  one  of  the  ants  ;  "  but 
I  am  afraid  we  shall  hardly  succeed,  for  she 
is  a  queen  !" 

"  That  is  nothing !"  said  the  old  folks ; 
"  has  she  a  house  ?" 

"  She  has  a  palace  !"  said  the  ant — "  the 
finest  ant's  palace,  with  seven  hundred  pas- 
sages !" 


34  THE    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

"  I  thank  you  !"  said  Mother  Snail ;  "  om 
son  shall  not  go  into  an  ant-hill ;  if  you  know 
nothing  better  than  that,  we  shall  give  the 
commission  to  the  white  gnats.  They  fly  far 
and  wide,  in  rain  and  sunshine ;  they  know 
the  w4iole  forest  here,  both  within  and  with- 
out." 

"  We  have  a  wafe  for  him,"  said  the  gnats ; 
"at  a  hundred  human  paces  from  here  there 
sits  a  little  snail  in  her  house,  on  a  goose- 
berry bush ;  she  is  quite  lonely,  and  old 
enough  to  be  married.  It  is  only  a  hundred 
human  paces !" 

"  Well,  tlien,  let  her  come  to  him  !"  said 
the  old  ones  ;  "  he  has  a  whole  forest  of  bur- 
docks, she  has  onl}^  a  bush  !" 

And  so  they  went  and  fetched  little  Miss 
Snail.  It  was  a  whole  week  before  she  ar- 
rived ;  but  tlierein  was  just  the  very  best,  of 
it,  for  one  could  thus  see  that  she  was  of 
the  same  species. 

And  then  the  marriage  was  celebrated. 
Six  eart  h-w^orms  shone  as  well  as  they  could. 
In  other  respects  the  whole  went  off  very 
quietly,  for  the  old  folks  could  not  bear  noise 
and  merriment ;  but  old   Dame  Snail  mad« 


THE    HAPPY    FAMILY.  35 

a  brilliant  speech.  Father  Snail  could  not 
speak,  he  was  too  much  affected ;  and  so 
they  gave  them  as  a  dowry  and  inheritance, 
the  whole  forest  of  burdocks,  and  said — -what 
they  had  always  said — that  it  was  the  best 
in  the  world  ;  and  if  they  lived  honestly  and 
decently,  and  increased  and  multiplied,  they 
and  their  children  would  once  in  the  course 
of  time  come  to  the  manor-house,  be  boiled 
black,  and  laid  on  silver  dishes.  After  this 
speech  was  made,  the  old  ones  crept  into  their 
shells,  and  never  more  came  out.  They 
slept ;  the  young  couple  governed  in  the  for- 
est, and  had  a  numerous  progeny,  but  they 
were  never  boiled,  and  never  came  on  the 
silver  dishes ;  so  from  this  they  concluded 
that  the  manor-house  had  fallen  to  ruins,  and 
that  all  the  men  in  the  world  were  extinct ; 
and  as  no  one  contradicted  them,  so,  of  course 
it  was  so.  And  the  rain  beat  on  the  dock- 
leaves  to  make  drum-music  for  their  sake, 
and  the  sun  shone  in  order  to  give  the  bur- 
dock forest  a  color  for  their  sakes ;  and  they 
were  very  happy,  and  the  whole  family  was 
happy ;  for  they,  indeed  were  so. 


THE   STORY    OF  A   MOTHER 


MOTHER  sat  there  with  her 
httle  child.    She  was  so  down- 
cast,  so  afraid  that  it  should 
die !     It   was    so    pale,   the 
small  eyes  had  closed  them- 
selves, and  it  drew  its 
breath    so   softly,    now 
and  then,  with  a  deep 
^^^^.     ^    respiration,  as  if  it  sighed;  and 
-9    the  mother  looked  still  more  sorrow- 
fully oil  the  little  creature. 

Then  a  knocking  was  heard  at  the  door, 
and  in  came  a  poor  old  man  wrapped  up  as 
m  a  large  horse-cloth,  for  it  warms  one,  and 
he  needed  it,  as  it  was  the  cold  winter  season  ! 
Every  thing  out  of  doors  was  covered  with 
ice  and  snow,  and  the  wind  blew  so  that  it 
cut  the  face. 

36 


THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER.  37 

As  the  old  man  trembled  with  cold,  and 
the  little  child  slept  a  moment,  the  mother 
went  and  poured  some  ale  into  a  pot  and  set 
it  on  the  stove,  that  it  might  be  warm  for 
him ;  the  old  man  sat  and  rocked  the  cradle, 
and  the  mother  sat  down  on  a  chair  close  by 
him,  and  looked  at  her  little  sick  child  that 
drew  its  breath  so  deep,  and  raised  its  little 
hand. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  I  shall  save  him  ?" 
said  she,  "  Our  Lord  will  not  take  him  from 
me!" 

And  the  old  man, — it  was  Death  himself, — 
he  nodded  so  strangely,  it  could  just  as  well 
signify  yes  as  no.  And  the  mother  looked 
down  in  hep  lap,  and  the  tears  ran  down  over 
her  cheeks  ;  her  head  became  so  heavy — she 
had  not  closed  her  eyes  for  three  days  and 
nights ;  and  now  she  slept,  but  only  for  a 
minute,  when  she  started  up  and  trembled 
with  cold :  "  What  is  that  ? "  said  she,  and 
looked  on  all  sides ;  but  the  old  man  was 
gone,  and  her  little  child  was  gone — he  had 
taken  it  with  him ;  and  the  old  clock  in  the 
corner  burred,  and  burred,  the  great  leaden 


38  THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER. 

weight  ran  down  to  the  floor,  bump !  and 
then  the  clock  also  stood  still. 

But  the  poor  mother  ran  out  of  the  house 
and  cried  aloud  for  her  child. 

Out  there,  in  the  midst  of  the  snow,  there 
sat  a  woman  in  long,  black  clothes  ;  and  she 
said,  "  Death  has  been  in  thy  chamber,  and 
I  saw  him  hasten  away  with  thy  little  child  ; 
he  goes  faster  than  the  wind,  and  he  never 
brings  back  what  he  takes  !" 

"Oh,  only  tell  me  which  way  he  went!" 
said  the  mother  :  "  Tell  me  the  way,  and  I 
shall  find  him  !" 

"I  know  it !"  said  the  woman  in  the  black 
clothes,  "but  before  I  tell  it,  thou  must  first 
sing  for  me  all  the  songs  thou  hast  sung  for 
thy  child  ! — I  am  fond  of  them  ;  I  have  heard 
them  before ;  I  am  Night ;  I  saw  thy  tears 
whilst  thou  sang'st  them  !" 

"  I  will  sing  them  all,  all !"  said  the  mother  ; 
"  but  do  not  stop  me  now  ; — I  may  overtake 
him — I  may  find  my  child  !" 

But  Night  stood  still  and  mute.  Then  the 
mother  wrung  her  hands,  sang  and  wept,  and 
there  were  many  songs,  but  yet  many  more 
tears  ;  and  then  Night  said,  "  Go  to  the  right, 


THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER.  39 

into  the  dark  pine  forest ;  thither  I  saw  Death 
take  his  way  with  thy  Httle  child  !" 

The  roads  crossed  each  other  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest,  and  she  no  longer  knew  whither 
she  should  go  ;  then  there  stood  a  thorn-bush ; 
there  was  neither  leaf,  nor  flower  on  it,  it  was 
also  in  the  cold  winter  season,  and  ice-flakes 
hung  on  the  branches. 

"  Hast  thou  not  seen  Death  go  past  wi^,  ■ 
my  little  child  ?  "  said  the  mother.  /  ^ 

"  Yes,"  said  the  thorn-bush ;  "  but  I  will 
not  tell  thee  which  way  he  took,  unless  thou 
wilt  first  warm  me  up  at  thy  heart.  I  am 
freezing  to  death  ;  I  shall  become  a  lump  of 
ice!" 

And  she  pressed  the  thorn-bush  to  her 
breast,  so  firmly,  that  it  might  be  thoroughly 
warmed,  and  the  thorns  went  right  into  her 
flesh,  and  her  blood  flowed  in  large  drops,  but 
the  thorn-bush  shot  forth  fresh  green  leaves, 
and  there  came  flowers  on  it  in  the  cold  win- 
ter night,  the  heart  of  the  afl^icted  mother 
was  so  warm  ;  and  the  thorn-bush  told  her 
the  way  she  should  go. 

She  then  came  to  a  large  lake,  where  there 
was  neither  ship  nor  boat.     The  lake  was 


40  THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER. 

not  frozen  sufficiently  to  bear  her ;  neithei 
was  it  open,  nor  low  enough  that  she  could 
wade  through  it ;  and  across  it  she  must  go 
if  she  w^ould  find  her  child  !  Then  she  lay 
down  to  drink  up  the  lake,  and  that  was 
an  impossibility  for  a  human  being,  but  the 
afflicted  mother  thought  that  a  miracle  might 
happen  nevertheless. 

"  Oh,  what  would  I  not  give  to  come  to  my 
child!"  said  the  weeping  mother;  and  she 
wept  still  more,  and  her  eyes  sunk  down  in 
the  depths  of  the  waters,  and  became  two 
precious  pearls  ;  but  the  water  bore  her  up? 
as  if  she  sat  in  a  swing,  and  she  flew  in  the 
rocking  waves  to  the  shore  on  the  opposite 
side,  where  there  stood  a  mile-broad,  strange 
house,  one  knew  not  if  it  were  a  mountain 
with  forests  and  caverns,  or  if  it  were  built 
up  ;  but  the  poor  mother  could  not  see  it ;  she 
had  wept  her  eyes  out. 

"  Where  shall  I  find  Death,  who  took  away 
my  Uttle  child?"  said  she. 

"  He  has  not  come  here  yet !"  said  the  old 
grave  woman,  who  w^as  appoint-xl  to  look 
after  Death's  great  greenhouse  !    "  How  have 


THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER.  41 

you  been  able  to  find  the  way  hither  ?  and 
who  has  helped  you  ?  " 

"  Our  Lord  has  helped  me,"  said  she.  "  He 
is  merciful,  and  you  will  also  be  so  !  Where 
shall  I  find  my  httle  child?" 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,"  said  the  woman,  "  and 
you  cannot  see !  Many  flowers  and  trees 
have  withered  this  night;  Death  will  soon 
come  and  plant  them  over  again !  You  cer- 
tainly know  that  every  person  has  his  or  her 
life's  tree  or  flower,  just  as  every  one  happens 
to  be  settled  ;  they  look  like  other  plants,  but 
they  have  pulsations  of  the  heart.  Children's 
hearts  can  also  beat ;  go  after  yours,  perhaps 
you  may  know  your  child's ;  but  what  will 
you  give  me  if  I  tell  you  what  you  shall  do 
more  ?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  give,"  said  the  afflicted 
mr  ther,  "  but  I  will  go  to  the  world's  end  for 
you ! " 

"  Nay,  I  have  nothing  to  do  there ! "  said 
the  woman,  "  but  you  can  give  me  your  long 
black  hair  ;  you  know  yourself  that  it  is  fine, 
and  that  I  like  !  You  shall  have  my  white 
hair  instead  !"  and  that's  always  something  !" 

"  Do  you  demand  nothing  else  ?  '  said  she, 


42  THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER. 

— "  that  I  will  gladly  give  you  ! "  And  she 
gave  ner  her  fine  black  hair,  and  got  the  old 
woman's  snow-white  hair  instead. 

So  they  went  into  Death's  great  greenhouse, 
where  flowers  and  trees  grew  strangely  into 
one  another.  There  stood  fine  hyacinths 
under  glass  bells,  and  there  stood  strong- 
stemmed  peonies ;  there  grew  water  plants, 
some  so  fi-esh,  others  half  sick,  the  water- 
snakes  lay  doAvn  on  them,  and  black  crabs 
pinched  their  stalks.  There  stood  beautiful 
palm-trees,  oaks,  and  plantains ;  there  stood 
parsley  and  flowering  thyme  :  every  tree  and 
every  flower  had  its  name  ;  each  of  them  was 
a  human  life,  the  human  frame  still  lived — 
one  in  China,  and  another  in  Greenland — 
round  about  in  the  world.  There  were  large 
trees  in  small  pots,  so  that  they  stood  so 
stunted  in  growth,  and  ready  to  burst  the 
pots  ;  in  other  places,  there  was  a  little  dull 
flower  in  rich  mould,  with  moss  round  about 
it,  and  it  was  so  petted  and  nursed.  But  the 
distressed  mother  bent  down  over  all  the 
smallest  plants,  and  heard  within  them  how 
the  human  heart  beat ;  and  amongst  millions 
ehe  knew  her  child's. 


THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER.  43 

"There  it  is  !"  cried  she,  and  stretched  her 
hands  out  over  a  Uttle  blue  crocus,  that  hung 
quite  sick.y  on  one  side. 

'•Don't  touch  the  flower!"  said  the  old 
woman,  "  but  place  yourself  here,  and  when 
Death  comes, — I  expect  him  every  moment, 
— do  not  let  him  pluck  the  flower  up,  but 
threaten  him  that  you  will  do  the  same  with 
the  others.  Then  he  will  be  afraid  !  he  is  re- 
sponsible for  them  to  Our  Lord^  and  no  one 
dares  to  pluck  them  up  before  He  gives  leave." 

All  at  once  an  icy  cold  rushed  through  the 
great  hall,  and  the  blind  mother  could  feel 
that  it  was  Death  that  came. 

"  How  hast  thou  been  able  to  find  thy  way 
hither  ?  "  he  asked.  "  How  couldst  thou  come 
quicker  than  I  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  mother,"  said  she. 

And  Death  stretched  out  his  long  hand 
towards  the  fine  little  flower,  but  she  held  her 
hands  fast  around  his,  so  tight,  and  yet  afi  aid 
that  she  should  touch  one  of  the  leaves. 
Then  Death  blew  on  her  hands,  and  she  felt 
that  it  was  colder  than  the  cold  wind,  and 
her  hands  fell  down  powerless. 


44  THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER. 

"  Thou  canst  not  do  anything  against  me !" 
said  Death. 
.    "  But  that  Our  Lord  can  !"  said  she. 

"  I  only  do  His  bidding  !"  said  Death.  "  1 
am  His  gardener,  I  take  all  His  flowers  and 
trees,  and  plant  them  out  in  the  great  garden 
of  Paradise,  in  the  unknown  land  ;  but  how 
they  grow  there,  and  how  it  is  there  I  dare 
not  tell  thee." 

"  Give  me  back  my  child  !"  said  the  mother, 
and  she  wept  and  prayed.  At  once  she  seiz- 
ed hold  of  two  beautiful  flowers  close  by, 
with  each  hand,  and  cried  out  to  Death,  "  I 
will  tear  all  thy  flowers  off,  for  I  am  in  des- 
pair." 

"Touch  them  not!"  said  Death.  "Thoy 
say'st  that  thou  art  so  unhap[)y,  and  now 
thou  wilt  make  another  mothej-  equally  un- 
happy." 

"  Another  mother  !"  said  the  poor  woman, 
and  directly  let  go  her  hold  of  both  the 
flowers. 

"  There,  thou  hast  thine  eyes,"  said  Death ; 
"I  fished  them  up  from  the  lake,  they  shone 
so  bright ;  I  knew  not  they  were  thine  Take 
them  again,  they  are  now  brighter  than  be 


THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER.  45 

fore ;  now  look  down  into  the  deep  well  close 
by  ;  I  shall  tell  thee  the  names  of  the  two  flow- 
ers thou  wouldst  have  torn  up,  and  thou  wilt 
see  their  whole  future  life — their  whole 
human  existence :  and  see  what  thou  wast 
about  to  disturb  and  destroy." 

And  she  looked  down  into  the  well ;  and 
it  was  a  happiness  to  see  how  the  one  be- 
came a  blessing  to  the  world,  to  see  how 
much  happiness  and  joy  were  felt  everywhere. 
And  she  saw  the  other's  life,  and  it  was  sor 
row  and  distress,  horror,  and  wretchedness. 

"  Both  of  them  are  God's  will !"  said  Death. 

"  Which  of  them  is  Misfortune's  flower  ? 
and  which  is  that  of  Happiness  ?"  asked  she. 

"  That  I  will  not  tell  thee,"  said  Death ; 
"  but  this  thou  shalt  know  from  me,  that  the 
one  flower  was  thy  own  child !  it  was  thy 
child's  fate  thou  saw'st, — thy  own  child's 
future  life !" 

I'hen  the  mother  screamed  with  terror, 
"  Which  of  them  was  my  child  ?  Tell  it  me  ! 
save  the  inno'cent !  save  my  child  from  all 
that  misery  !  rather  take  it  away  !  take  it  into 
God's  kingdom  '  Forget  my  tears,  forget  my 
prayers,  aij-.    iii  mat  [  have  done  !" 


i6  THE    STORY    OF    A    MOTHER. 

"I  do  not  understand  thee!"  said  Death. 
"  Wilt  thou  have  thy  child  again,  or  shall  1 
go  with  it  there,  where  thou  dost  not  know  !" 

Then  the  mother  wrung  her  hands,  fell  on 
her  knees,  and  prayed  to  our  Lord :  "  Oh, 
hear  me  not  when  I  pray  against  Thy  will, 
which  is  the  best !  hear  me  not !  hear  me 
not !" 

And  she  bowed  her  head  down  in  her  lap, 
and  Death  took  her  child  and  went  with  it 
into  the  unknown  land. 


THE   FALSE   COLLAR. 


HERE  was  once  a  fine 
gentleman,  all  of  whose 
moveables  were  a  boot- 
jack and  a  hair- 
comb  :  but  he  had 
the  finest  false  col- 
lars in  the  world  ; 
and  it  is  about  one 
of  these  collars  that  we  are  now  to  hear  a 
story. 

It  was  so  old,  that  it  began  to  think  of 
marriage ;  and  it  happened  that  it  came  to 
be  washed  in  company  with  a  garter. 

"  Nay  !"  said  the  collar,  "  I  never  did  see 
anything  so  slender  and  so  fine,  so  soft  and 
so  neat.     May  I  not  ask  your  name?" 

"That   I   shall   not   tell   you!"    said   the 
kk  47 


48  THE    FALSE    COLLAR. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?"  asked  the  collar. 

But  the  garter  was  so  bashful,  so  modest, 
and  thought  it  was  a  strange  question  to 
answer. 

"You  are  certainly  a  girdle,"  said  the 
collar;  *'that  is  to  say  an  inside  girdle.  I 
see  well  that  you  are  both  for  use  and  or- 
nament, my  dear  young  lady." 

"  I  will  thank  you  not  to  speak  to  me," 
said  the  garter.  "  I  think  I  have  not  given 
the  least  occasion  for  it." 

"  Yes  !  when  one  is  as  handsome  as  you," 
said  the  collar,  "  that  is  occasion  enough." 

"  Don't  come  so  near  me,  I  beg  of  you !" 
said  the  garter.  "You  look  so  much  like 
those  men-folks." 

"I  am  also  a  fine  gentleman,"  said  the 
collar.     "  I  have  a  boot-jack  and  a  hair-comb." 

But  that  was  not  true,  for  it  was  his  mas- 
ter who  had  them  :  but  he  boasted. 

"  Don't  come  so  near  me,"  said  the  garter : 
"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  it." 

"  Prude  !"  exclaimed  the  collar  ;  and  then 
it  was  taken  out  of  the  washing-tub.  It  was 
starched,  hung  over  the  back  of  a  chair  in  the 
Bunsliine,  and  was  then  laid  on  the  ironing- 


THE    FALSE    COLLAR.  49 

blanket  ;  then  came  the  warm  box-iron. 
"  Dear  lady  !"  said  the  collar.  "  Dear  widow- 
lady  !  I  feel  quite  hot.  I  am  quite  changed. 
I  begin  to  unfold  myself.  You  will  burn  a 
hole  in  me.     Oh  !  I  olTer  you  my  hand." 

"  Rag  !"  said  the  box-iron  ;  and  went  proud- 
ly over  the  collar :  for  she  fancied  she  was  a 
steam-engine,  that  would  go  on  the  railroad 
and  draw  the  waggons.  "  Rag !"  said  the 
box-iron. 

The  collar  was  a  little  jagged  at  the  edge, 
and  so  came  the  long  scissors  to  cut  off  the 
jagged  part. 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  collar,  "  you  are  certamly  the 
first  opera  dancer.  How  well  you  can  stretch 
your  legs  out !  It  is  the  most  graceful  per- 
formance I  have  ever  seen.  No  one  can  im- 
itate you." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  scissors. 

"  You  deserve  to  be  a  baroness,"  said  the 
collar.  "  All  that  I  have,  is,  a  fine  gentle- 
man, a  boot-jack,  and  a  hair-comb.  If  I  only 
had  the  barony  !" 

"  Do  you  seek  my  hand  ?"  said  the  scissors ; 
for  she  was  angry  ;  and  without  more  ado, 
she  cut  him,  and  then  he  was  condemned. 
4 


50  THE    FALSE    COLLAR. 

"  I  shall  now  be  obliged  to  ask  the  hair- 
comb.  It  is  surprising  how  well  you  preserve 
your  teeth,  Miss,"  said  the  collar.  "Have 
you  never  thought  of  being  betrothed  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  !  you  may  be  sure  of  that," 
said  the  hair  comb.  "I  am  betrothed — to 
the  boot-jack  !" 

"  Betrothed  !"  exclamied  the  collar.  Now 
there  was  no  other  to  court,  and  so  he  des- 
pised it. 

A  long  time  passed  away,  then  the  collar 
came  into  the  rag  chest  at  the  paper  mill ; 
there  was  a  large  company  of  rags,  the  fine 
by  themselves,  and  the  coarse  by  themselves, 
just  as  it  should  be.  They  all  had  much  to 
say,  but  the  collar  the  most ;  for  he  was  a  real 
boaster. 

"  I  have  had  such  an  immense  number  of 
sweet-hearts  !"  said  the  collar,  "  I  could  not 
be  in  peace  !  It  is  true,  I  was  always  a  fine 
starched-up  gentleman  !  I  had  both  a  boot- 
jack and  a  hair-comb,  which  I  never  used ! 
You  should  have  seen  me  then,  you  should 
have  seen  me  when  I  lay  down  ! — I  shall 
never  forget  my  first  love — she  was  a  girdle, 
80  fine,  so  soft,  and  so  charming,  she  threv? 


THE    FALSE    COLLAR.  51 

herself  into  a  tub  of  water  for  my  sake ! 
There  was  also  a  widow,  who  became  glow- 
ing hot,  but  I  left  her  standing  till  she  got 
black  again  ;  there  was  also  the  first  opera 
dancer,  she  gave  me  that  cut  which  I  now 
go  with,  she  was  so  ferocious!  my  own  hair- 
comb  was  m  love  with  me,  she  lost  all  her 
teeth  from  the  heart-ache  ;  yes,  I  have  lived 
to  see  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  I  am 
extremely  sorry  for  the  garter — I  mean  the 
girdle — that  went  into  the  Avater-tub.  I  have 
much  on  my  conscience,  I  want  to  become 
white  paper  !" 

And  it  became  so,  all  the  rags  were  turned 
into  white  paper ;  but  the  collar  came  to  be 
just  this  very  piece  of  white  paper  we  here 
see,  and  on  which  the  story  is  printed  ;  and 
that  was  because  it  boasted  so  terribly  after- 
wards of  what  had  never  happened  to  it.  It 
would  be  well  for  us  to  beware,  that  we  may 
not  act  in  a  similar  manner,  for  we  can  never 
know  if  we  may  not,  in  the  course  of  time, 
also  come  into  the  rag  chest,  and  be  made 
into  white  paper,  and  then  have  our  whole 
life's  history  printed  on  it,  even  the  most  se- 
cret, and  be  obliged  to  run  about  and  tell  it 
ourselves,  just  like  this  collar. 


THE    SHADOW. 


Viiy^^^^F^ '  T  is  in  the  liot  lands 
.^iStW^;  j'!'\  that  the  sun  burns, 
sure  enough! — there 
the  people  become 
quite  a  mahogany 
brown,  ay,  and  in 
the  hottest  lands  they 
are  burnt  to  negroes. 
But  now  it  was  only  to  the  Jiot  lands  that  a 
learned  man  had  come  from  the  cold;  there 
he  thought  that  he  could  run  about  just  as 
wlien  at  home,  but  he  soon  foimd  out  his 
mistake. 

He,  and  all  sensible  folks,  were  obliged  to 
stay  within  doors, — the  window-shutters  and 
doors  were  closed  the  whole  day  ;  it  looked 
as  if  the  whole  house  slept,  or  there  was 
Qo  one  at  home. 

?j2 


THE    SHADOW. 


53 


The  narrow  street  with  the  high  houses, 
was  built  so  that  the  sunshine  must  fall  there 
from  morning  till  evening — it  was  really  not 
to  be  borne. 

The  learned  man  from  the  cold  lands — he 
was  a  young  man,  and  seemed  to  be  a  clever 
man — sat  in  a  glowing  oven  ;  it  took  effect 
on  him,  he  became  quite  meagre — even  his 
shadow  shrunk  in,  for  the  sun  had  also  an 
effect  on  it.  It  was  first  towards  evening 
when  the  sun  was  down,  that  they  began  to 
freshen  up  again. 

In  the  warm  lands  every  window  has  a 
balcony,  and  the  people  came  out  on  all  the 
balconies  in  the  street — for  one  must  have 
air,  even  if  one  be  accustomed  to  be  mahoga- 
ny !*  It  was  lively  both  up  and  down  the 
street.     Tailors,  and  shoemakers,  and  all  the 

*  The  word  mahogany  can  be  understood,  in  Danish, 
as  having  two  meanings.  In  general,  it  means  the  red- 
dish-brown wood  itself;  but  in  jest,  it  signifies  "exces- 
sively fine,"  which  arose  from  an  anecdote  of  Nyboder, 
in  Copenhagen,  (the  seamen's  quarter.)  A  sailor's  wife, 
who  was  always  proud  and  fine,  in  h"er  way,  came  to 
her  neighbor,  and  complained  that  she  had  got  a  splinter 
in  her  finger.  I'  What  of?''  asked  the  neighbor's  wife. 
''  It  is  a  mahogany  splinter,"  said  the  other.     "  Mahoga- 


54  THE    SHADOW. 

folks,  moved  out  into  the  street — chairs  and 
tables  were  brought  forth — and  candles 
burnt — yes,  above  a  thousand  lights  were 
burning — and  the  one  talked  and  the  other 
sung ;  and  people  walked  and  church-bells 
rang,  and  asses  went  along  with  a  dingle- 
dingle-dong  !  for  they  too  had  bells  on.  The 
street  boys  were  screaming  and  hooting,  and 
shouting  and  shooting,  with  devils  and  deto- 
nating balls  : — and  there  came  corpse  bearers 
and  hood  wearers, — for  there  were  funerals 
with  psalm  and  hyn)n, — and  then  the  din  of 
carriages  driving  and  company  arriving: — 
yes,  it  was,  in  truth,  lively  enough  down  in 
the  street.  Only  in  that  single  house,  which 
stood  opposite  that  in  which  the  learned  for- 
eigner lived,  it  was  quite  still  ;  and  yet  some 
one  lived  there,  for  there  stood  flowers  in  the 
balcony — they  grew  so  well  in  the  sun's  heat! 
— and  that  they  could  not  do  unless  they  were 
watered — and  some  one  must  water  them — 
there  must  be  somebody  there.  The  door 
opposite  was  also  opened  late  in  the  evening, 

ny !  it  cannot  be  less  with  you  !*'  exclaimed  the  wo 
man; — and  thence  the  proverb,  "  It  is  so  mahogany.'" — 
(that  is,  so  excessively  fine) — is  derived. 


THE    SHADOW.  55 

Dut  it  was  dark  within,  at  least  in  the  front 
room  ;  further  in  there  was  heard  the  sound 
of  music.  The  learned  foreisrner  thoug^ht  it 
quite  marvellous,  but  now — it  might  be  that 
ne  only  imagined  it — for  he  found  everything 
marvellous  out  there,  in  the  warm  lands,  if 
there  had  only  been  no  sun.  The  stranger's 
landlord  said  that  he  didn't  know  who  had 
taken  the  house  opposite,  one  saw  no  person 
about,  and  as  to  the  music,  it  appeared  to 
him  to  be  extremely  tiresome.  "  It  is  as  if 
some  one  sat  there,  and  practised  a  piece  that 
he  could  not  master — always  the  same  piece. 
^  I  shall  master  it !'  says  he  ;  but  yet  he  can- 
not master  it,  however  long  he  plays." 

One  night  the  stranger  awoke — he  slept 
with  the  doors  of  the  balcony  open — the  cur- 
tain before  it  was  raised  by  the  wind,  and  he 
thought  that  a  strange  lustre  came  from  the 
opposite  neighbor's  house ;  all  the  flowers 
shone  like  flames,  in  the  most  beautiful  col- 
ors, and  in  the  midst  of  the  flowers  stood  a 
slender,  graceful  maiden, — it  was  as  if  she 
also  shone  ;  the  light  really  hurt  his  eyes 
He  now  opened  them  quite  wide — yes,  he 
was  quite  awake ;  with  one  spring  he  was  on 

11 


56  THE    SHADOW. 

the  floor  ;  he  crept  gently  behind  the  curtain 
but  the  maiden  was  gone  ;  the  flowers  shone 
no  longer,  but  there  they  stood,  fresh  and 
blooming  as  ever;  the  door  was  ajar,  and, 
far  within,  the  music  sounded  so  soft  and  de- 
Hghtful,  one  could  really  melt  away  in  sweet 
thoughts  from  it.  Yet  it  was  like  a  piece  ol 
enchantment.  And  who  lived  there  ?  Where 
was  the  actual  entrance  ?  The  whole  of  the 
ground-floor  was  a  row  of  shops,  and  there 
people  could  not  always  be  running  through. 

One  evening  the  stranger  sat  out  on  the 
balcony.  The  light  burnt  in  the  room  behind 
him  ;  and  thus  it  was  quite  natural  that  his 
shadow  should  fall  on  his  opposite  neighbor's 
wall.  Yes  !  there  it  sat,  directly  opposite,  be- 
tween the  flowers  on  the  balcony ;  and  when 
the  stranger  moved,  the  shadow  also  moved : 
for  that  it  always  does. 

"  I  think  my  shadow  is  the  only  living  thing 
one  sees  over  there,"  said  the  learned  man. 
"  See  !  how  nicely  it  sits  between  the  flowers. 
The  door  stands  half-open  :  now  the  shadow 
should  be  cunning,  and  go  into  the  room,  look 
about,  and  then  come  and  tell  me  Avhat  it  had 
seen.     Come,  now  !  be  useful  and  do  me  a 


THE    SHADOW. 

1 
57      i 

service, 

'  said  he,  in  jest.     ^'  Have 

the 

kind-      i 

ness 

to 

step  in. 

Now  !  art  thou  going  ? 

'  and      t 

then 

he 

nodded 

to  the  shadow,  an 

d  tlie 

sha- 

dow  nodded  again.  "  Well  then,  go !  but 
don't  stay  away." 

The  stranger  rose,  and  his  shadow  on  the 
opposite  neighbors  balcony  rose  also ;  the 
stranger  turned  round  and  the  shadow  also 
turned  round.  Yes !  if  any  one  had  paid 
particular  attention  to  it,  they  would  have 
seen,  (juite  distinctly,  that  the  shadow  went 
in  through  the  half-open  balcony-door  of  their 
opposite  neighbor,  just  as  the  stranger  went 
into  his  own  room,  and  let  the  long  curtain 
fall  down  after  him. 

Next  morning,  the  learned  man  went  out 
to  drink  coffee  and  read  the  newspapers. 

"What  is  that?"  said  he,  as  he  came  out 
into  the  sunshine.  "  I  have  no  shadow  !  So 
then,  it  has  actually  gone  last  night,  and  not 
come  again.     It  is  really  tiresome  !" 

This  annoyed  him :  not  so  much  because 
the  shadow  was  gone,  but  because  he  knew 
there  was  a  stofy  about  a  man  without  a 
shadow.*     It  was  known   to   everybody   al 

"Peter  Schlemihl,  the  shadowless  man. 


58  THE    SHADOW. 

home,  in  the  cold  lands ;  and  if  the  learned 
man  now  came  there  and  told  his  stoi:y,  they 
would  say  that  he  was  imitating  it,  and  that 
he  had  no  need  to  do.  He  would,  therefore, 
not  talk  about  it  at  all ;  and  that  was  wisely 
thought. 

In  the  evening  he  went  out  again  on  the 
balcony.  He  had  placed  the  light  directly 
behind  him,  for  he  knew  that  the  shadow 
would  always  have  its  master  for  a  screen, 
but  he  could  not  entice  it.  He  made  himself 
little  ;  he  made  himself  great :  but  no  sha- 
dow came  again.  He  said,  "Hem!  hem!" 
but  it  was  of  no  use. 

It  was  vexatious  ;  but  in  the  ^varm  lands 
every  thing  grows  so  quickly ;  and  after  the 
apse  of  eight  days  he  observed,  to  his  great 
oy,  that  a  new  shadow  came  in  the  sunshine. 
In  the  course  of  three  weeks  he  had  a  very 
fair  shadow,  which,  w^hen  he  set  out  for  his 
home  in  the  northern  lands,  grew  more  and 
more  in  the  journey,  so  that  at  last  it  was  so 
long  and  so  large,  that  it  was  more  than 
sufficient. 

The  learned  man  then  came  home,  and  he 
w^rote   books   about   what   w^as  true   in  the 


THE    SHADOW. 


59 


world,  and  about  what  was  good  and  what 
was  beautiful ;  and  there  passed  days  and 
years, — yes  !  many  years  passed  away. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  sitting  in  his  room, 
there  was  a  gentle  knocking  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  !"  said  he  ;  but  no  one  came  in  ; 
^o  he  opened  the  door,  and  there  stood  before 
him  such  an  extremely  lean  man,  that  he 
felt  quite  strange.  As  to  the  rest,  the  man 
was  very  finely  dressed, — he  must  be  a  gen- 
tleman. 

"  Whom  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  ?  " 
asked  the  learned  man. 

''Yes!  I  thought  as  much,"  said  the  fine 
man.  "  I  thought  you  would  not  know  me. 
I  have  got  so  much  body.  I  have  even  got 
flesh  and  clothes.  You  certainly  never 
thought  of  seeing  me  so  well  off.  Do  you 
not  know  your  old  shadow  ?  You  certainly 
thought  I  should  never  more  return.  Things 
have  gone  on  well  with  me  since  I  was  last 
witli  you.  I  have,  in  all  respects,  become 
very  well  off.  Shall  I  purchase  my  freedom 
from  service  ?  If  so,  I  can  do  it ;"  and  then 
he  rattled  a  whole  bunch  of  valuable  seals 
that  hung  to  his   watch,  and  he  stuck  his 


60  THE    SHADOW. 

hand  in  the  thick  gold  chain  he  wore  around 
his  neck  ; — nay  !  how  all  his  fingers  glittered 
with  diamond  rings ;  and  then  all  were  pine 
gems. 

"  Nay ;  I  cannot  recover  from  my  sur- 
prise!"  said  the  learned  man:  "what  is  tlie 
meaning  of  all  this?"  • 

"Something  common,  is  it  not,"  said  the 
sliadow  :  "  but  you  yourself  do  not  belong  to 
the  common  order  ;  and  I,  as  you  know  well, 
have  from  a  child  followed  in  your  footsteps. 
As  soon  as  you  found  I  was  capable  to  go 
out  alone  in  the  world,  I  Avent  my  own  Avay. 
I  am  in  the  most  brilliant  circumstances,  but 
there  came  a  sort  of  desire  over  me  to  see  you 
once  more  before  you  die ;  you  will  die,  1 
suppose?  I  also  wished  to  see  this  land 
again, — for  you  know  we  always  love  om* 
native  land.  I  know  you  have  got  another 
shadow  again  ;  have  I  anything  to  pay  to  it 
or  you  ?  If  so,  you  will  oblige  me  by  saying 
what  it  is." 

"  Nay,  is  it  really  thou  ?"  said  the  learned 
man :  "  it  is  most  remarkable :  I  never  im- 
agined that  one's  old  shadow  could  come 
aofain  as  a  man." 


THE    SHADOW.  61 

"  Tell  me  what  I  have  to  pay,"  said  the 
shadow ;  "  for  I  don't  like  to  be  in  any  sort  of 
debt." 

"  How  canst  thou  talk  so  ?"  said  the  learn- 
ed man ;  "  what  debt  is  there  to  talk  about  ? 
Make  thyself  as  free  as  any  one  else.  I  am 
extremely  glad  to  hear  of  thy  good  fortune : 
sit  down,  old  friend,  and  tell  me  a  little  how 
it  has  gone  with  thee,  and  what  thou  hast 
seen  at  our  opposite  neighbor's  there — in  the 
warm  lands." 

^  "  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  the 
shadow,  and  sat  down  :  "  but  then  you  must 
also  promise  me,  that,  wherever  5^ou  may 
meet  me,  you  will  never  say  to  any  one  here 
in  the  town  that  I  have  been  your  shadow. 
I  intend  to  get  betrothed,  for  I  can  provide 
for  more  than  one  family." 

"Be  quite  at  thy  ease  about  that,"  said  the 
learned  man ;  "  I  shall  not  say  to  any  one 
who  thou  actually  art :  here  is  my  hand — I 
promise  it,  and  a  man's  bond  is  his  word." 

"A  word  is  a  shadow,"  said  the  shadow, 
"  and  as  such  it  must  speak." 

It  was  really  quite  astonishing  how  much 
of  a  man  it  was.     It  w  -  s  dressed  entirely  iu 


62  THE    SHADOW. 

black,  and  of  the  very  finest  cloth  ;  it  had 
patent  leather  boots,  and  a  hat  that  could  be 
folded  together,  so  that  it  was  bare  crown 
and  brim  ;  not  to  speak  of  what  we  already 
know  it  had — seals,  gold  neck-chain,  and 
diamond  rings ;  yes,  the  shadow  was  well- 
dressed,  and  it  was  just  that  which  made  it 
quite  a  man. 

"  Now  1  shall  tell  you  my  adventures,"  said 
the  shadow ;  and  then  he  sat,  with  the 
polished  boots,  as  heavily  as  he  could,  on 
the  arm  of  the  learned  man's  new  shadow% 
which  lay  like  a  poodle-dog  at  his  feet.  Now 
this  was  perhaps  from  arrogance ;  and  the 
shadow  on  the  ground  kept  itself  so  still  and 
quiet,  that  it  might  hear  all  that  passed :  it 
wished  to  know  how  it  could  get  free,  and 
work  its  way  up,  so  as  to  become  its  own 
master. 

"  Do  you  know  who  hved  in  om'  opposite 
neighbor's  house?"  said  the  shadow  ;  " it  was 
the  most  charming  of  all  beings,  it  was  Poe- 
sy !  I  w^as  there  for  three  weeks,  and  thai 
has  as  much  effect  as  if  one  had  lived  three 
thousand  years,  and  read  all  that  was  com- 
posed and  written  ;  that  is  what  I  say,  and 


THF    SHADOW  63 

it  is  right.  I  have  seen  everything  and  I 
know  everything !" 

"  Poesy  !"  cried  the  learned  man  ;  "  yes, 
yes,  she  often  dwells  a  recluse  in  large 
cities !  Poesy  !  yes,  I  have  seen  her, — a 
single  short  moment,  but  sleep  came  into  my 
eyes  !  She  stood  on  the  balcony  and  shone 
as  the  aurora  borealis  shines.  Go  on,  go  on  ! 
— thou  wert  on  the  balcony,  and  went 
through  the  doorway,  and  then " 

"  Then  1  was  in  the  antechamber,"  said 
the  shadow.  "You  always  sat  and  looked 
over  to  the  antechamber.  There  was  no 
light ;  there  was  a  sort  of  twilight,  but  the 
one  door '  stood  open  directly  opposite  the 
other  through  a  long  row  of  rooms  and 
saloons,  and  there  it  was  lighted  up.  I  should 
have  been  completely  killed  if  I  had  gone 
over  to  the  maiden  ;  but  I  was  circumspect, 
I  took  time  to  think,  and  that  one  must 
always  do." 

"  And  what  didst  thou  then  see  ?"  asked  thts 
learned  man. 

"  I  saw  everything,  and  1  shall  tell  all  to 
you  :  but, — it  is  no  pride  on  my  part, — as  a 
free  man,  and  wiih  the  knowledge  I  have, 


64  THE    SHADOW. 

not  to  speak  of  my  position  in  life,  my  excel- 
lent circumstances, — I  certainly  wish  that 
you  would  say  you*  to  me  !*' 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  learned  man  ; 
"it  is  an  old  habit  with  me.  'Yon  are  per- 
fectly right,  and  I  shall  remember  it ;  but 
now  you  must  tell  me  all  you  saw  !" 

"  Everything !"  said  the  shadow,  "  for  I 
saw  everything,  and  I  know  everything  !" 

"How  did  it  look  in  the  furthest  saloon?' 
asked  the  learned  man.     "  Was  it  there  as  in 

*  It  is  the  custom  in  Denmark  for  intimate  acquaint- 
anoes  to  use  the  second  person  singular,  '*  Du/'  (thou) 
when  speaking  to  each  other.  When  a  friendship  is 
formed  between  men,  they  generally  affirm  it,  when 
occasion  offers,  either  in  public  or  private,  by  drinking  to 
each  other  and  exclaiming,  "  thy  health,''^  at  the  same 
time  striking  their  glasses  together. — This  "is  called 
drinking  "I>M?is  :" — they  are  then,  '■^  Duns  Brodre,''^  (thou 
brothers,)  and  ever  afterwards  use  the  pronoun  "thou" 
to  each  other,  it  being  regarded  as  more  familiar  than 
"  De,"  (you).  Father  and  mother,  sister  and  brother, 
say  ihon  to  one  another — without  regard  to  age  or  rank. 
Master  and  mistress  say  thou  to  their  servants — the  su- 
perior to  the  inferior.  But  servants  and  inferiors  do  not 
use  the  same  term  to  their  masters,  or  superiors — nor  is 
it  ever  used  when  speaking  to  a  stranger,  or  any  one 
with  whom  they  are  but  slightly  acquainted — they  then 
Bay  as  in  English — you. 


THE    SHADOW.  65 

the  fiesh  woods  ?  Was  it  there  as  in  a  holy 
cliurch  ?  Were  the  saloons  like  the  starlit 
firmament  when  we  stand  on  the  high  moun- 
tains ?" 

"  Everything  was  there !"  said  the  shadow. 
"I  did  not  go  quite  in,  I  remained  in  the 
foremost  room,  in  the  twilight,  but  I  stood 
tliere  quite  well ;  I  saw  everything,  and  I 
know  everything  !  I  have  been  in  the  ante- 
chamber at  the  court  of  Poesy." 

"  But  what  did  you  see?  Did  all  the  gods 
of  the  olden  times  pass  through  the  large  sa- 
loons ?  Did  the  old  heroes  combat  there  1 
Did  sweet  cliildren  play  there,  and  relate 
theii  dreams  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  was  there,  and  you  can  con- 
ceive that  1  saw  everything  there  was  to  be 
seen.  Had  you  come  over  there,  you  would 
not  have  been  a  man  ;  but  I  became  so  I 
And  besides,  I  learned  to  know  my  inward 
nature,  my  innate  qualities,  the  relationship  I 
had  with  Poesy.  At  the  time  I  was  with 
you,  I  thought  not  of  that,  but  always — you 
know  it  well — when  the  sun  rose,  and  when 
the  sun  went  down,  I  became  so  strangely 
great ;  in  the  moonlight  I  was  very  rear  being 


66  THE    SHADOW. 

more  distinct  than  yourself;  at  that  time  1 
did  not  understand  my  nature ;  it  was  re- 
vealed to  me  in  the  antechamber  !  I  became 
a  man  ! — I  came  out  matured  ;  but  you  were 
no  longer  in  the  warm  lands ; — as  a  man  I 
was  ashamed  to  go  as  I  did.  I  was  in  want 
of  boots,  of  clothes,  of  the  whole  human  var- 
nish that  makes  a  man  perceptible.  I  took 
my  way — I  tell  it  to  you,  but  you  will  not  put 
it  in  any  book — I  took  my  way  to  the  cake 
woman — I  hid  myself  behind  her  ;  the  wo- 
man didn't  think  how  much  she  concealed. 
I  went  out  first  in  the  evening ;  I  ran  about 
the  streets  in  the  moonlight ;  I  made  myself 
long  up  the  walls — it  tickles  the  back  so  de- 
hghtfuUy  !  I  ran  up,  and  ran  down,  peeped 
into  the  highest  windows,  into  the  saloons, 
and  on  the  roofs,  I  peeped  in  where  no  one 
could  peep,  and  I  saw  what  no  oiie  else  saw, 
what  no  one  else  should  see  !  This  is,  in  fact, 
a  base  world  !  I  woidd  not  be  a  man  if  it 
were  not  now  once  accepted  and  regarded  as 
something  to  be  so  !  I  saw  the  most  unim- 
aginable things  with  the  women,  with  the 
men,  with  parents,  and  with  the  sweet, 
matchless  children  ;  I  saw,"  said  the  shadow 


THE    SHADOW.  67 

"  what  no  human  being  must  know,  but  what 
they  would  all  so  willingly  know — what  is 
bad  in  their  neighbor.  Had  I  written  a 
newspaper,  it  would  have  been  read  !  but  I 
wrote  direct  to  the  persons  themselves,  and 
there  was  consternation  in  all  the  towns 
where  I  came.  They  were  so  afraid  of  me, 
and  yet  they  were  so  excessively  fond  of  me. 
The  professors  made  a  professor  of  me ;  the 
tailors  gave  me  new  clothes — I  am  well  fur- 
nished :  the  master  of  the  mint  struck  new 
coin  for  me,  and  the  women  said  1  was  so 
handsome  !  and  so  I  became  the  man  I  am. 
And  I  now  bid  you  farew^ell ; — here  is  my 
card — I  live  on  the  simny  side  of  the  street, 
and  am  ahvays  at  home  in  rainy  weather  !" 
A.nd  so  away  went  the  shadow. 

"  That  was  most  extraordinary  !"  said  the 
learned  man 

Years  and  days  passed  away,  then  the 
shadow  came  again. 

"How  goes  it?"  said  the  shadow. 

"  Alas  !"  said  tlie  learned  man,  "  I  write 
about  the  true,  and  the  good,  and  the  beauti- 
ful, but  no  one  cares  to  hear  such  things ;  I 


68  THE    SHADOW. 

am  quite  desperate,  for  I  take  it  so  much  to 
heart!" 

''But  I  don't!"  said  the  shadow,  ''I  become 
fat,  and  it  is  that  one  wants  to  become !  You 
do  not  understand  the  world.  Yon  will  be- 
come ill  by  it.  You  must  travel !  I  shall 
make  a  tour  this  summer ;  will  you  go  with 
me  ? — I  should  like  to  have  a  travelling  com- 
panion !  will  you  go  with  me,  as  shadow  ?  It 
will  be  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  have  you 
with  me  ;  Ishallpay  the  travelling  expenses!" 

"  Nay,  this  is  too  much!"  said  the  learned 
man. 

"  It  is  just  as  one  takes  it !" — said  the  sha- 
dow. "  It  will  do  you  much  good  to  travel ! 
— will  you  be  my  shadow  ? — you  shall  have 
everything  free  on  the  journey  !" 

"Nay,  that  is  too  bad!"  said  the  learned 
man. 

''  But  it  is  just  so  with  the  world !"  said  the 
shadow, — "  and  so  it  will  be !" — and  away  it 
went  again. 

The  learned  man  was  not  at  all  in  the 
most  enviable  state  ;  grief  and  torment  fol- 
lowed him,  and  what  he  said  about  the  true^ 
and  the  good,  and  the  beautiful,  was,  to  most 


THE    SHADOW.  69 

persons,  like  roses  for  a  cow  ! — he  was  quite 
ill  at  last. 

"You  really  look  like  a  shadow !"  said  his 
friends  to  him  ;  and  the  learned  man  treir- 
bled,  for  he  thought  of  it. 

"You  must  go  to  a  watering-place  !''  said 
the  shadow,  who  came  and  visited  him ; 
"  there  is  nothing  else  for  it !  I  will  take  j^ou 
with  me  for  old  acquaintance'  sake  ;  I  will 
pay  the  travelling  expenses,  and  you  write 
the  descriptions — and  if  they  are  a  little 
amusing  for  me  on  the  way  !  I  will  go  to  a 
watering-place, — my  beard  does  not  grow  out 
as  it  ought — that  is  also  a  sickness — and  one 
must  have  a  beard  !  Now  you  be  wise  and 
accept  the  offer  ;  we  shall  travel  as  comrades  T 

And  so  they  travelled  ;  the  shadow  was 
master,  and  the  master  was  the  shadow  ;  they 
drove  with  each  other,  they  rode  and  walked 
together,  side  by  side,  before  and  behind,  just 
as  the  sun  was  ;  the  shadow  always  took 
care  to  keep  itself  in  the  master's  place.  Now 
the  learned  man  didn't  think  much  about 
that ;  he  was  a  very  kind-hearted  man,  and 
particularly  mild  and  friendly,  and  so  he  said 
one  day  to  the  shadow :  "  As   we  have  now 


70  THE    SHADOW. 

become  companions,  and  in  this  way  have 
grown  up  together  from  childhood,  shall  we 
not  drink  '  thou '  together,  it  is  more  fami- 
liar?" 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  shadow,  who  was 
now  the  proper  master.  "  It  is  said  in  a  very 
straight-forward  and  well-meant  manner. 
You,  as  a  learned  man,  certainly  know  how 
strange  nature  is.  Some  persons  cannot  bear 
to  touch  grey  paper,  or  they  become  ill ; 
others  shiver  in  every  limb  if  one  rub  a  pane 
of  glass  with  a  nail :  I  have  just  such  a  feel- 
ing on  hearing  you  say  thou  to  me  ;  I  feel 
myself  as  if  pressed  to  the  earth  in  my  first 
situation  with  you.  You  see  that  it  is  a  feel- 
ing ;  that  it  is  not  pride :  I  cannot  allow  you 
to  say  thou  to  me,  but  I  will  willingly  say 
thoit  to  you,  so  it  is  half  done ! " 

So  the  shadow  said  thou  to  its  former  mas- 
ter. 

"  This  is  rather  too  bad,"  thought  he,  that 
I  must  say  i/ou  and  he  say  thou"  but  he  was 
now  obliged  to  put  up  with  it. 

So  they  came  to  a  watering-place  where 
there   were   many   strangers,   and   amongst 


THE    SHADOW.  71 

tber.l  was  a  princess,  who  was  troubled  with 
seeing  too  well ;  and  that  was  so  alarming  ! 

She  directly  observed  that  the  stranger 
who  had  just  come  was  quite  a  different  sort 
of  person  to  all  the  others  ; — "  He  has  come 
here  in  order  to  get  his  beard  to  grow,  they 
say,  but  I  see  the  real  cause,  he  cannot  cast 
a  shadow." 

She  had  become  inquisitive ;  and  so  she 
entered  into  conversation  directly  with  the 
strange  gentleman,  on  their  promenades.  As 
the  daughter  of  a  king,  she  needed  not  to 
stand  upon  trifles,  so  she  said,  "  Your  com- 
plaint is,  that  you  cannot  cast  a  shadow  ?  " 

"  Your  Royal  Highness  must  be  improving 
considerably,"  said  the  shadow, — "1  know 
your  complaint  is,  that  you  see  too  clearly, 
but  it  has  decreased,  you  are  cured.  I  just 
happen  to  have  a  very  unusual  shadow  !  Do 
you  not  see  that  person  who  always  goes 
with  me?  Other  persons  have  a  common 
shadow,  but  I  do  not  like  what  is  common  to 
all.  We  give  our  servants  finer  cloth  for 
their  livery  than  we  ourselves  use,  and  so  I 
bad  my  shadow  trimmed  up  into  a  man  :  yes, 
/ou  see  I  have  even  given  him  a  shadow.    It 

mm 


72  THE    SHADOW. 

is  somewhat  expensive,  but  I  like  to  have 
something  for  myself !" 

"What!"  thought  the  princess,  "should  1 
really  be  cured  !  These  baths  are  the  first  in 
the  world  !  In  our  time  water  has  wonder- 
ful powers.  But  I  shall  not  leave  the  place, 
for  it  now  begins  to  be  amusing  here.  I  am 
extremely  fond  of  that  stranger  :  would  that 
his  beard  should  not  grow !  for  in  that  case 
he  will  leave  us." 

In  the  evening,  the  princess  and  the  sha- 
dow danced  together  in  the  large  ball-room. 
She  was  light,  but  he  was  still  lighter ;  she 
had  never  had  such  a  partner  in  the  dance. 
She  told  him  from  v/hat  land  she  came,  and 
he  knew  that  land ;  he  had  been  there,  but 
then  she  was  not  at  home  ;  he  had  peeped  in 
at  the  window,  above  and  below — he  had 
seen  both  the  one  and  the  other,  and  so  he 
could  answer  the  princess,  and  make  insinu- 
ations, so  that  she  was  quite  astonished  ;  he 
must  be  the  wisest  man  in  the  whole  wo'ld ! 
she  felt  such  respect  for  what  he  knew  !  So 
that  when  they  again  danced  together  she 
fell  in  love  with  him ;  and  that  the  shadow 
could  remark,  for  she   almost  pierced   him 


THE    SHADOW.  t6 

through  with  her  eyes.  So  they  danced  once 
more  together ;  and  she  was  about  to  declare 
herself,  but  she  was  discreet ;  she  thought  of 
her  country  and  kingdom,  and  of  the  many 
persons  she  would  have  to  reign  over. 

"  He  is  a  wise  man,"  said  she  to  herself — 
"  It  is  well ;  and  he  dances  delightfully — that 
is  also  good  ;  but  has  he  solid  knowledge  ? — 
that  is  just  as  important ! — he  must  be  exam- 
ined." 

So  she  began,  by  degrees,  to  question  him 
about  the  most  difficult  things  she  could  think 
of,  and  which  she  herself  could  not  have  an- 
swered ;  so  that  the  shadow  made  a  strange 
face. 

"You  cannot  answer  these  questions?" 
said  the  princess. 

"  They  belong  to  my  childhood's  learning," 
said  the  shadow.  "  I  really  believe  my  sha- 
dow, by  the  door  there,  can  answer  them  !" 

"  Your  shadow  !"  said  the  princess  ;  "  that 
would  indeed  be  marvellous  !" 

"  I  will  not  say  for  a  certainty  that  he  can,'' 
said  the  shadow,  "  but  I  think  so ;  he  has 
now  followed  me  for  so  many  years,  and  lis- 
tened to  my  conversation — I  should  thv.ik  it 


74  THE    SHADOW. 

possille.  But  your  royal  highness  will  per- 
mit me  to  observe,  that  he  is  so  proud  of 
passing  himself  off  for  a  man,  that  when  he 
is  to  be  in  a  proper  humor — and  he  must  be 
so  to  answer  well — he  must  be  treated  quite 
like  a  man." 

"  Oh  !  I  like  that  !"  said  the  princess. 

So  she  went  to  the  learned  man  by  the 
door,  and  she  spoke  to  him  about  the  sun  and 
the  moon,  and  about  persons  out  of  and  in 
the  world,  and  he  answered  with  wisdom  and 
prudence. 

"  What  a  man  that  must  be  who  has  so 
wise  a  shadow  ! "  thought  she  ;  "  It  will  be  a 
real  blessing  to  my  people  and  kingdom  if  1 
choose  him  for  my  consort — I  will  do  it ! '' 

They  were  soon  agreed,  both  the  princess 
and  the  shadow ;  but  no  one  was  to  know 
about  it  before  she  arrived  in  her  own  kingdom. 

"No  one — not  even  my  shadow  !"  said  the 
shadow,  and  he  had  his  own  thoughts  about 
it! 

Now  they  were  in  the  country  where  the 
princess  reigned  when  she  was  at  home. 

"  Listen,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  shadow 
to  the  learned   man.     "  I  have  now  become 


THE    SHADOW  75 

as  happy  and  mighty  as  any  one  can  be ;  J 
will,  therefore,  do  something  particular  foi 
thee  !  Thou  shalt  always  live  with  me  in 
the  palace,  drive  with  me  in  my  royal  car- 
riage, and  have  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year  ; 
but  then  thou  must  submit  to  be  called  sha- 
dow by  all  and  every  one  ;  thou  must  not 
say  that  thou  hast  ever  been  a  man  ;  and 
once  a-year,  when  I  sit  on  the  balcony  in  the 
sunshine,  thou  must  lie  at  my  feet,  as  a  sha- 
dow shall  do  !  I  must  tell  thee  :  I  am  going 
to  marry  the  king's  daughter,  and  the  nup- 
tials are  to  take  place  this  evening !" 

"  Nay,  this  is  going  too  far  !"  said  the  learn- 
ed man;  "I  will  not  have  it ;  I  will  not  do 
it !  it  is  to  deceive  the  whole  country  and  the 
princess  too  !  I  will  tell  every  thing  ! — that 
I  am  a  man,  and  that  thou  art  a  shadow — 
thou  art  only  dressed  up  !" 

"  There  is  no  one  who  will  believe  it ! "  said 
the  shadow;  "be  reasonable,  or  I  will  call 
the  guard  ! '' 

"I  will  go  directly  to  the  princess!"  said 
the  learned  man. 

"  But  I  will  go  first ! "  said  the  shadow, 
and  thou  wilt  go  to  prison!"  and  that  he 


76  THE    SHADOW. 

was  obliged  to  do — for  the  sentinels  obeyed 
him  whom  they  knew  the  king's  daughter 
was  to  marry. 

"You  tremble!"  said  the  princess,  as  the 
shadow  came  into  her  chamber ;  "  has  any- 
thing happened  ?  You  must  not  be  unwell 
this  evening,  now  that  we  are  to  have  our 
nuptials  celebrated." 

"  I  have  lived  to  see  the  most  cruel  thing 
that  any  one  can  live  to  see  !"  said  the  sha- 
dow. "  Only  imagine — yes,  it  is  true,  such  a 
poor  shadow-skull  cannot  bear  much — only 
think,  my  shadow  has  become  mad ;  he 
thinks  that  he  is  a  man,  and  that  I — now  only 
think — that  I  am  his  shadow  ! " 

"  It  is  terrible  !"  said  the  princess  ;  "  but  he 
is  confined,  is  he  not?" 

"  That  he  is.  I  am  afraid  that  he  will 
never  recover." 

"Poor  shadow!"  said  the  princess,  he  is 
very  unfortunate  ;  it  would  be  a  real  work  ol 
charity  to  deliver  him  from  the  little  life  he 
has,  and,  when  I  think  properly  over  the 
matter,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  do  away  with  him  in  all  stillness  !" 

'It  is  certainly  hard  !"  said  the  shadow, 


THE    SHADOW.  77 

"  for  he  was  a  faithful  servant ! "  and  then  he 
gave  a  sort  of  sigh. 

"  You  are  a  noble  character  ! "  said  the 
princess. 

The  whole  city  was  illuminated  in  the 
evening,  and  the  cannons  went  olT  with  a 
bum  !  bum  !  and  the  soldiers  presented  arms. 
That  was  a  marriage  !  The  princess  and 
the  shadow  went  out  on  the  balcony  to  show 
thejnselves,  and  get  another  hurrah  ! 

The  learned  man  heard  nothing  of  all  this 
— for  they  had  deprived  him  of  life. 


THE   OLD    STREET-LAMP, 


AYE  you  heard  the 
story  about  the  old 
street  lamp?  It  is 
so  very  amu^iing, 
one  may  very  well 
it  once.  It  was 
a  decent  old  slreet- 
j,  that  had  doD^  its 
duty  for  many,  many  years,  but 
now  it  was  to  be  condemned.  It 
was  the  last  evening, — it  sat  tlieie 
on  the  post  and  lighted  the  street ;  and  it 
was  in  just  such  a  humor  as  an  old  figurante 
in  a  ballet,  who  dances  for  the  last  evening? 
and  knows  that  she  is  to  be  put  on  the  shelf 
to-morrow.  The  lamp  had  such  a  fear  of  the 
coming  day,  for  it  knew  that  it  should  then 
78 


THE     OLD    STREET-LAMP.  79 

be  carried  to  the  town-hall  for  the  first  thne, 
and  examined  by  the  authorities  of  the  city, 
who  should  decide  if  it  could  be  used  or  nuh 
It  would  then  be  determined  whether  it 
should  be  sent  out  to  one  of  the  suburbs,  or  in 
to  the  country  to  a  manufactory  ;  perhaps  it 
would  be  sent  direct  to  the  ironfounder's  and 
be  re-cast ;  in  that  case  it  could  certainly  be 
all  sorts  of  things :  but  it  pained  it  not  to 
know  whether  it  would  then  retain  the  re- 
membrance of  its  having  been  a  street-lamp. 
However  it  might  be,  whether  it  went  into 
the  country  or  not,  it  would  be  separated 
from  the  watchman  and  his  wife,  whom  it 
regarded  as  its  family.  It  became  a  street- 
lamp  when  he  became  watchman.  His  wife 
was  a  very  fine  woman  at  that  time  ;  it  was 
only  in  the  evening  when  she  went  past  the 
lamp  that  she  looked  at  it,  but  never  in  the 
daytime.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  of  late 
years,  as  they  had  all  three  grown  old, — the 
watchman,  his  wife,  and  the  lamp, — the  wife 
had  always  attended  to  it,  polished  it  up,  and 
put  oil  in  it.  They  were  honest  folks  that 
married  couple,  they  had  not  cheated  the 
lamp  of  a  single  drop.  It  was  its  last  evening 
nn 


80  THE      OLD    STREET-LAMP. 

in  the  street,  and  to-morrow  it  was  to  ])e  taken 
to  the  town-hall  ;  these  were  two  dark 
thoughts  in  the  lamp,  and  so  one  can  know 
how  it  burnt.  But  other  thoughts  also  pass- 
ed through  it ;  there  was  so  much  it  had 
seen,  so  much  it  had  a  desire  for,  perhaps 
just  as  much  as  the  whole  of  the  city  autho- 
rities ;  but  it  didn't  say  so,  for  it  was  a  well- 
behaved  old  lamp — it  would  not  insult  any 
one,  least  of  all  its  superiors.  It  remembered 
so  much,  and  now  and  then  the  flames  within 
it  blazed  up, — it  was  as  if  it  had  a  feeling  of 
— yes,  they  will  also  remember  me  !  There 
was  now  that  handsome  young  man — but 
that  is  many  years  since, — he  came  with  a 
letter,  it  was  on  rose-colored  paper  ;  so  fine — 
so  fine  !  and  with  a  gilt  edge  ;  it  was  so  neatly 
written,  it  was  a  lady's  hand ;  he  read  it 
twice,  and  he  kissed  it,  and  he  looked  up  to 
me  with  his  two  bright  eyes — they  said,  "  1 
am  the  happiest  of  men  !"  Yes,  only  he  and 
I  knew^  what  stood  in  that  first  letter  from 
his  beloved. 

I  also  remember  two  other  eyes — it  is 
strange  how  one's  thoughts  fly  about ! — there 
was  a  grand  funeral  here  in  the  st-reet,  the 


THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP.  81 

beautiful  young"  wHe  lay  in  tiie  coffin  on  the 
\relvet-covered  funeral  car ;  there  were  so 
many  flowers  and  wreaths,  there  were  so 
many  torches  burning,  that  I  was  quite  for- 
gotten— out  of  sight ;  the  whole  footpath  was 
filled  with  persons  ;  they  all  followed  in  the 
procession  ;  but  when  the  torches  were  out 
of  sight,  and  I  looked  about,  there  stood  one 
who  leaned  against  my  post  and  wept.  I 
shall  never  forget  those  two  sorrowful  eyes 
that  looked  into  me.  Thus  there  passed 
many  thoughts  through  the  old  street-lamp, 
which  this  evening  burnt  for  the  last  time. 
The  sentinel  who  is  relieved  from  his  post 
knows  his  successor,  and  can  say  a  few  words 
to  him,  but  the  lamp  knew  not  its  successor  ; 
and  yet  it  could  have  given  him  a  liint  about 
rain  and  drizzle,  and  how  far  the  moon  shone 
on  the  footpath,  and  from  what  corner  the 
wind  blew. 

Now,  there  stood  three  on  the  kerb-stone ; 
they  had  presented  themselves  before  the 
lamp,  because  they  thought  it  was  the  street- 
lamp  who  gave  away  the  office ;  the  one  of 
these  three  was  a  herring's  head,  for  it  shines 
in  the  dark,  and  it  thought  that  it  could  be  of 


82  THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP. 

great  service,  and  a  real  saving  of  oil,  if  ii 
came  to  be  placed  on  the  lamp-post.  The 
other  was  a  piece  of  touchwood,  which  also 
shines,  and  always  more  than  a  stock-fish  ; 
besides,  it  said  so  itself,  it  was  the  last  piece 
of  a  tree  that  had  once  been  the  pride  of  the 
forest.  The  third  was  a  glow-worm ;  but 
where  it  had  come  from  the  lamp  could  not 
imagine  ;  but  the  glow-worm  was  there,  and 
it  also  shone,  but  the  touchwood  and  the  her- 
ring's head  took  their  oaths  that  it  only  shone 
at  certain  times,  and  therefore  it  could  never 
be  taken  into  consideration. 

The  old  lamp  said  that  none  of  them  shone 
well  enough  to  be  a  street-lamp ;  but  not  one 
of  them  thought  so  ;  and  as  they  heard  that 
it  was  not  the  lamp  itself  that  gave  away  the 
office,  they  said  that  it  was  a  very  happy 
thing,  for  that  it  was  too  infirm  and  broken 
down  to  be  able  to  choose. 

At  the  same  moment  the  wind  came  from 
the  street  corner,  it  whistled  through  the  cowl 
of  the  old  lamp,  and  said  to  it,  "  What  is  it 
that  I  hear,  are  you  going  away  to-morrow  ? 
Is  it  the  last  evening  I  shall  meet  you  here  ? 
Then  you  shall  have  a  present ! — now  I  wiU 


THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP.  83 

blow  up  your  brain-box  so  that  you  shall  not 
only  remember,  clearly  and  distinctly,  what 
you  have  seen  and  heard,  but  when  anything 
is  told  or  read  in  your  presence,  you  shall 
be  so  clear-headed  that  you  will  also  see  it." 

"  That  is  certainly  much !"  said  the  old 
street-lamp  ;  "  I  thank  you  much ;  if  I  be 
only  not  re-cast." 

"  It  will  not  happen  yet  awhile,"  said  the 
wind  ;  "  and  now  I  will  blow  up  your  memo- 
ry ;  if  you  get  more  presents  than  that  you 
may  have  quite  a  pleasant  old  age." 

"  If  I  be  only  not  re-cast,"  said  the  lamp ; 
"  or  can  you  then  assure  me  my  memory  ?" 

"  Old  lamp,  be  reasonable  !"  said  the  wind, 
and  then  it  blew.  The  moon  came  forth  at 
the  same  time.  "  What  do  you  give  ?"  asked 
the  wind. 

"  I  give  nothing  !"  said  the  moon  ;  "  I  am 
waning,  and  the  lamps  have  never  shone 
for  me,  but  I  have  shone  for  the  lamps."* 
So    the    moon     went    behind    the    clouds 

*  It  is  the  custom  in  Denmark,  and  one  deserving  the 
severest  censure,  that,  on  those  nights  in  which  the 
moon  sliiues,  or,  according  to  almanac  authority,  ought 
to  shine,  the  street  lamps  are  not  lighted;  so  that, 
as  it  too  frequently  happens,  when  the  moon  is  over- 


84  THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP. 

a^ain,  for  it  would  not  be  plagued.  A  drop 
of  rain  then  fell  straight  down  on  the  lamp's 
cowl,  it  was  like  a  drop  of  water  from  the 
eaves,  but  the  drop  said  that  it  came  from  the 
grey  clouds,  and  was  also  a  present, — and 
perhaps  the  best  of  all.  "I  penetrate  into 
you,  so  that  you  have  the  power,  if  you  wish 
it,  in  one  night  to  pass  over  to  rust,  so  that 
you  may  fall  in  pieces  and  become  dust." 
But  the  lamp  thought  this  was  a  poor  present, 
and  the  wind  thought  the  same.  "  Is  there 
no  better — is  there  no  better  ?"  it  whistled,  as 
loud  as  it  could.  A  shooting-star  then  fell, 
it  shone  in  a  long  stripe. 

"  What  was  that  ?"  exclaimed  the  herring's 
head ;  "  did  not  a  star  fall  right  down  ?  I 
think  it  went  into  the  lamp  !  Well,  if  per- 
sons who  stand  so  high  seek  the  office,  we 
may  as  well  take  ourselves  off." 

And  it  did  so,  and  the  others  did  so  too ; 

clouded,  or  on  rainy  evenings  when  she  is  totally  obscur- 
ed, the  streets  are  for  the  most  part  in  perfect  darkness. 
This  petty  economy  is  called  "  the  magistrates'  light," 
they  having  the  direction  of  the  lighting,  paving,  and 
cleansing  of  towns. 

The  same  management  may  be  met  with  in  some 
other  countries  besides  Denmark. 


THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP.  85 

bat  the  old  lamp  shone  all  at  once  so  sing-u- 
laily  bright." 

"  That  was  a  fine  present !"  it  said  ;  "  the 
bright  stars  which  I  have  always  pleased 
myself  so  much  about,  and  which  shine  so 
beautifully, — as  1  really  have  never  been  able 
to  shine,  although  it  was  my  whole  aim  and 
endeavor, — have  noticed  me,  a  poor  old-lamp, 
and  sent  one  down  Avith  a  present  to  me, 
which  consists  of  that  quality,  that  everything 
I  myself  remember  and  see  quite  distinctly, 
shall  also  be  seen  by  those  I  am  fond  of;  and 
that  is,  above  all,  a  true  pleasure,  for  what 
one  cannot  share  with  others  is  but  a  half 
delight." 

"  It  is  a  very  estimable  thought,"  said  the 
wind  ;  "  but  you  certainly  don't  know  that 
there  must  be  wax-candles  ;  for  unless  a  wax- 
candle  be  lighted  in  you  there  are  none  of 
the  others  that  will  be  able  to  see  anything 
particular  about  you.  The  stars  have  not 
thought  of  that;  they  think  that  everything 
which  shines  has,  at  least,  a  wax-candle  in 
it.  But  now  I  am  tired,"  said  the  wind,  '•'  I 
will  now  lie  down;"  and  so  it  lay  down  to 
rest. 


86  THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP. 

The  next  day — yes,  the  next  day  we  wih 
ypring  over :  the  next  evening  the  lamp  lay 
in  the  arm  chair, — and  where  ?  At  the  old 
watchman's.  He  had,  for  his  long  and  faith- 
ful services,  begged  of  the  authorities  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  keep  the  old  lamp  ;  they 
laughed  at  him  when  he  begged  for  it,  and 
then  gave  him  it ;  and  now  the  lamp  lay  in 
the  arm-chair,  close  by  the  warm  stove,  and 
it  was  really  just  as  if  it  had  become  larger 
on  that  account, — it  almost  filled  the  whole 
chair.  The  old  folks  now  sat  at  their  sup- 
per, and  cast  mild  looks  at  the  old  lamp, 
which  they  would  willingly  have  given  a 
place  at  the  table  with  them.  It  is  true  they 
lived  in  a  cellar,  a  yard  or  so  below  ground: 
one  had  to  go  through  a  paved  front-room  to 
come  into  tlie  room  they  lived  in  ;  but  it  was 
warm  here,  for  there  was  list  round  the  door 
to  keep  it  so.  It  looked  clean  and  neat,  with 
cuitaius  round  the  bed  and  over  the  small 
windows,  where  two  strange-looking  flower- 
pots stood  on  the  sill.  Christian,  the  sailor, 
had  brought  them  from  the  East  or  West 
Indies ;  they  were  of  clay  in  the  form  of  two 
elephants,  the  backs  of  which  were  wanting: 


THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP.  87 

but  in  their  place  there  came  flourishing 
plants  out  of  the  earth  that  was  in  them  ;  in 
the  one  was  the  finest  chive, — it  was  the  old 
folks'  kitchen -garden, — and  in  the  other  was 
a  large  flowering  geranium — this  was  their 
flower-garden.  On  the  wall  hung  a  large 
colored  print  of  "  The  Congress  of  Vienna  ;" 
there  they  had  all  the  kings  and  emperors  at 
once.  A  Bornholm*  clock,  with  heavy  leaden 
weights  went  '•  tic-tac  !"  and  always  too  fast ; 
but  the  old  folks  said  it  was  better  than  if  it 
went  too  slow.  They  ate  their  suppers,  and 
the  old  lamp,  as  we  have  said,  lay  in  the  arm- 
chair close  by  the  warm  stove.  It  was,  for 
the  old  lamp,  as  if  the  whole  world  was  turn- 
ed upside  down.  But  when  the  old  watch- 
man looked  at  it,  and  spoke  about  what  they 
had  lived  to  see  with  each  other,  in  rain  and 

*  Bornholm,  a  Danish  island  in  the  Baltic  is  famous 
for  its  manufactures  of  clocks,  potteries,  and  cement ;  it 
contains  also  considerable  coal  mines,  though  not  worked 
to  any  extent.  It  is  fertile  in  minerals,  chalks,  potters' 
clay  of  the  finest  quality,  and  other  valuable  natural  pro- 
ductions ;  but,  on  account  of  the  jealous  nature  of  the 
inhabitants,  which  deters  foreigners  from  settling  there, 
these  productions  are  not  made  so  available  or  profitable 
IS  they  otherwise  might  be. 


S8  THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP. 

drizzle,  in  the  clear,  short  summer  nights, 
and  when  tlie  snow  drove  about  so  that  it  was^ 
g"ood  to  get  into  the  pent-house  of  the  cellar, 
— then  all  was  again  in  order  for  the  old 
lamp,  it  saw  it  all  just  as  if  it  were  now  pre- 
sent ; — yes  !  the  wind  had  blown  it  up  right 
well, — it  had  enlightened  it. 

The  old  folks  were  so  clever  and  indus- 
trious, not  an  hour  was  quietly  dozed  away ; 
on  Sunday  afternoons  some  book  was  always 
brought  forth,  particularly  a  book  of  travels, 
and  the  old  man  read  aloud  about  Africa, 
about  the  g  reat  forests  and  the  elephants  that 
were  there  quite  wild ;  and  the  old  woman 
listened  so  attentively,  and  now  and  then 
took  a  side  glance  at  the  clay  elephants — her 
flower-pots.  "  I  can  almost  imagine  it !"  said 
she  ;  and  the  lamp  wished  so  much  that  there 
was  a  wax  candle  to  light  and  be  put  in  it,  so 
tliat  she  could  plainly  see  everything  just  as 
tlie  lamp  saw  it;  the  tall  trees,  the  thick 
branches  twining  into  one  another,  the  black 
men  on  horseback,  and  whole  trains  of  ele- 
phants, which,  with  their  broad  feet,  crushed 
the  canes  and  bushes. 

'•  Of  what  use  are  all  my  abihties  when 


1 


THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP.  89 

there  is  no  wax  candle  ?"  sighed  the  lamp ; 
"  they  have  only  train  oil  and  tallow  candles, 
and  they  are  not  sufficient." 

One  day  there  came  a  whole  bundle  of 
stumps  of  wax  candles  into  the  cellar,  the 
largest  pieces  were  burnt,  and  the  old  woman 
used  the  smaller  pieces  to  wax  her  thread 
with  when  she  sewed  ;  there  were  wax  can- 
die  ends,  but  they  never  thought  of  putting 
a  little  piece  in  the  lamp. 

"  Here  I  stand  with  my  rare  abilities,"  said 
the  lamp  ;  "  I  have  everything  within  me. 
but  I  cannot  share  any  part  with  them. 
They  know  not  that  I  can  transform  the 
white  walls  to  the  prettiest  paper-hangings, 
to  rich  forests,  to  everything  that  they  may 
wish  for.     They  know  it  not !" 

For  the  rest,  the  lamp  stood  in  a  corner, 
where  it  always  met  the  eye,  and  it  was  neat 
and  well  scoured  ;  folks  certainly  said  it  was 
an  old  piece  of  rubbish  ;  but  the  old  man  and 
his  wife  didn't  care  about  that,  they  were 
fond  of  the  lamp. 

One  day  it  was  the  old  watchman's  birth 
day ;  the  old  woman  came  up  to  the  lamp, 
smiled,  and  said,  "  I  will  illuminate  for  him,' 


90  THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP. 

and  the  lamp's  cowl  creaked,  for  it  thought, 
"  They  will  now  be  enhghtened  !"  But  she 
put  in  train  oil,  and  no  wax  candle ;  it  burnt 
the  whole  evening ;  but  now  it  knew  that 
the  gift  which  the  stars  had  given  it,  the  best 
gift  of  all,  was  a  dead  treasure  for  this  life. 
It  then  dreamt — and  when  one  has  such 
abilities,  one  can  surely  dream, — that  the  old 
folks  were  dead,  and  that  it  had  come  to  an 
ironfounder's  to  be  cast  anew ;  it  was  in  as 
much  anxiety  as  when  it  had  to  go  to  the 
town-hall  to  be  examined  by  the  authorities  ; 
but  although  it  had  the  power  to  fall  to  pieces 
hi  rust  and  dust,  when  it  wished  it,  yet  it 
did  not  do  it ;  and  so  it  came  into  the  furnace 
and  was  re-cast  as  a  pretty  iron  candlestick, 
in  which  any  one  might  set  a  wax  candle. 
It  had  the  form  of  an  angel,  bearing  a  nose- 
gay, and  in  the  centre  of  the  nosegay  they 
put  a  wax  tapt/^  and  it  was  placed  on  a 
green  writing-table ;  and  the  room  was  so 
snug  and  comfortable :  there  hung  beauLiful 
pictures — there  stood  many  books  ;  it  was  at 
a  poet's,  and  everything  tfiat  he  wrote,  un 
veiled  itself  round  about :  the  room  became 
a    deep,    dark    forest, — a    sun-lit    meadow. 


THE    OLD    STREET-LAMP.  91         | 

where  the  stork  stalked  about ;  and  a  ship's  , 
deck  hio^h  aloft  on  the  swellinsr  sea !  i 

"  What  power  I  have ! "  said  the  old  lamp, 
as  it  awoke.  "  1  almost  long  to  be  re-cast ; — 
but  no,  it  must  not  be  as  long  as  the  old  folks 
live.  They  are  fond  of  me  for  the  sake  of 
my  person.  I  am  to  them  as  a  child,  and 
they  have  scoured  me,  and  they  have  given 
me  train  oil.  After  all,  I  am  as  well  off  as 
'  The  Congress,' — which  is  something  so  very 
grand." 

From  that  time  it  had  more  inward  peace, 
which  v«ras  'iierited  by  the  old  street-lamp. 


THE  DREAM  OF  LITTLE  TUK. 


H  !  yes,  that  was  little  Tuk ; 
in  reality  his  name  was  not 
Tuk,  but  that  was  what  he 
called  himself  before  he  could 
speak  plain  :  he  meant  it 
for  Charles,  and  it  is 
all  well  enough  if  one 
do  but  know  it.  He 
had  now  to  take  care  of  his 
little  sister  Augusta,  who  was  much 
less  than  himself,  and  he  was,  besides,  to 
learn  his  lesson  at  the  same  time  ;  but  these 
two  thino^s  would  not  do  together  at  all. 
There  sat  the  poor  little  fellow  with  his  sister 
on  his  lap,  and  he  sang  to  her  all  the  songs 
he  knew ;  and  he  glanced  the  while  from 
92 


THE    DREAM    OP    LITTLE  TUK.  93 

time  to  time  into  the  geogiaphy-book  that  lay 
open  before  him.  By  the  next  morning  he 
was  to  have  learnt  all  the  towns  in  Zealand 
oy  heart,  and  to  know  about  them  all  that  is 
possible  to  be  known. 

His  mother  now  came  home,  for  she  had 
been  out,  and  took  little  Augusta  on  her  arm. 
Tuk  ran  quickly  to  the  window,  and  read 
80  eagerly  that  he  pretty  nearly  read  his 
eyes  out ;  for  it  got  darker  and  darker,  but 
his  mother  had  no  money  to  buy  a  candle. 

"  There  goes  the  old  washerwoman  over 
the  way,"  said  his  mother,  as  she  looked  out 
of  the  window.  "  The  poor  woman  can 
hardly  drag  herself  along,  and  she  must  now 
drag  the  pail  home  from  the  fountain :  be  a 
good  boy,  Tukey,  and  run  across  and  help 
the  old  woman,  won't  you  ? " 

So  Tuk  ran  over  quickly  and  helped  her ; 
but  when  he  came  back  again  into  the  room 
it  was  quite  dark,  and  as  to  a  light,  there  was 
no  thought  of  such  a  thing.  He  was  now  to 
go  to  bed  ;  that  was  an  old  turn-up  bedstead ; 
in  it  he  lay  and  thought  about  his  geography 
lesson,  and  of  Zealand,  and  of  all  that  his 
master  had  told  him.     He  ought,  to  be  sure, 


94  THE    DREAM    OF  LITTLE    TUK. 

to  have  read  over  his  lesson  again,  but  that, 
you  know,  he  could  not  do.  He  therefore 
put  his  geography-book  under  his  pillow,  be- 
cause he  had  heard  that  was  a  very  good 
thing  to  do  when  one  wants  to  learn  one's 
lesson ;  but  one  cannot,  however,  rely  upon 
it  entirely.  Well  there  he  lay,  and  thought 
and  thought,  and  all  at  once  it  was  j  ust  as  if 
some  one  kissed  his  eyes  and  mouth  :  he 
slept,  and  yet  he  did  not  sleep ;  it  was  as 
though  the  old  washerwoman  gazed  on  him 
with  her  mild  eyes  and  said,  "  It  were  a  great 
sin  if  you  were  not  to  know  your  lesson  to- 
morrow morning.  You  have  aided  me,  I 
therefore  will  now  help  you ;  and  the  loving 
God  will  do  so  at  all  times."  And  all  of  a 
sudden  the  book  under  Tuk's  pillow  began 
scraping  and  scratching. 

"Kickery-ki!  kluk  !  kluk  !  kluk  !"— that 
was  an  old  hen  who  came  creeping  along, 
and  she  was  from  Kjoge.  I  am  a  Kjoger 
hen,"*  said  she,  and  then  she  related   how 

*  Kj5ge,  a  town  in  the  bay  of  Kj6ge.  "  To  see  the 
Kjftge  hens,"  is  an  expression  similar  to  "  showing  a  child 
London,"  which  is  said  to  be  done  by  taking  his  head  in 
both  hands,  and  so  lifting  him  off  the  ground.    At  the  in* 


THE    DREAM  OF    LITTLE    TUK.  95 

many  inhabitants  there  were  there,  and 
about  the  battle  that  had  taken  place,  and 
which,  after  all,  was  hardly  worth  talking 
about. 

"  Kribledy,  krabledy — plump  ! "  down  fell 
somebody :  it  was  a  wooden  bird,  the  popin- 
jay used  at  the  shooting-matches  at  Prastoe. 
Now  he  said  that  there  were  just  as  many 
inhabitants  as  he  had  nails  in  his  body  ;  and 
he  was  very  proud.  "  Thorwaldsen  lived 
almost  next  door  to  me.*  Plump  !  here  I  lie 
capitally." 

But  little  Tuk  was  no  longer  lying  down : 
all  at  once  he  was  on  horseback.  On  he 
went  at  full  gallop,  still  galloping  on  and  on. 
A  knight  with  a  gleaming  plume,  and  most 
magnificently  dressed,  held  him  before  him 
on  the  horse,  and  thus  they  rode  through  the 
wood  to  the  old  town  of  Bordingborg,  and 

vasion  of  the  English  in  1807,  an  encounter  of  a  no  very 
glorious  nature  took  place  between  the  British  troops  and 
the  undisciplined  Danish  militia. 

*  PrastSe,  a  still  smaller  town  than  I^6ge.  Some 
hundred  paces  from  it  lies  the  manor-house  Ny  S6e, 
where  Thorwaldsen  generally  sojourned  during  his  stay 
in  Denmark,  and  where  he  called  many  of  his  iramortaJ 
works  into  existence. 

GO 


96  THE  DREAM    OF    LITTLE    TUK. 

that  was  a  large  and  very  lively  town.  High 
towers  rose  from  the  castle  of  the  king,  and 
the  brightness  of  many  candles  streanied 
fiom  all  the  windows  ;  within  was  dance  and 
song,  and  King  Waldemar  and  the  young, 
richly-attired  maids  of  honor  danced  together. 
The  morn  now  came  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  sun 
appeared,  the  whole  town  and  the  king^s  pal- 
ace crumbled  together,  and  one  tower  after 
the  other  ;  and  at  last  only  a  single  one  re- 
mained standing  where  the  castle  had  been 
before,*  and  the  town  was  so  small  and  poor, 
and  the  school  boys  came  along  with  their 
books  under  their  arms,  and  said,  "2000  in- 
habitants F'  but  that  was  not  true,  for  there 
were  not  so  many. 

And  little  Tukey  lay  in  his  bed :  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  dreamed,  and  yet  as  if  he 
were  not  dreaming ;  however,  somebody  was 
close  beside  him. 

"  Little  Tukey  !  little  Tukey  !"  cried  some 
one  near.     It  was  a  seaman,   quite  a  littb 

•  Bordingborg,  in  the  reign  of  Kiog  Waldemar  a  con- 
siderable place,  now  an  unimportant  little  town.  One 
Bolitary  tower  only,  and  some  remains  of  a  wall,  show 
where  the  castle  once  stood. 


THE    DREAM    OF    LITTLE    TUK.  97 

personage,  so  little  as  if  he  were  a  midship- 
man ;  but  a  midshipman  it  was  not. 

"  Many  remembrances  from  Corsor.*  That 
is  a  town  that  is  just  rising  into  importance  ; 
a  lively  town  that  has  steam-boats  and  stage- 
coaches :  formerly  people  called  it  ugly,  but 
that  is  no  longer  true.  I  lie  on  the  sea,"  said 
Corsor ;  "  I  have  high  roads  and  gardens,  and 
I  have  given  birth  to  a  poet  who  was  witty 
and  amusing,  which  all  poets  are  not.  I  once 
intended  to  equip  a  ship  that  was  to  sail  all 
round  the  earth  ;  but  I  did  not  do  it,  although 
I  could  have  done  so :  and  then,  too,  I  smell 
so  deliciously,  for  close  before  the  gate  bloom 
the  most  beautiful  roses." 

Little  Tuk  looked,  and  all  was  red  and 
green  before  his  eyes ;  but  as  soon  as  the 
confusion  of  colors  was  somewhat  over,  all  of 
a  sudden  there  appeared  a  wooded  slope  close 
to  the  bay,  and  high  up  above  stood  a  magni- 
ficent  old   church,   with   two  high   pointed 

*  CSrsdr,  on  the  Great  Belt,  called,  formerly,  before 
the  introduction  of  steam-vessels,  when  travellers  w^ere 
often  obliged  to  wait  a  long  time  for  a  favorable  wind, 
•*  the  most  tiresome  of  towns."  The  poet  Baggesen 
was  boru  here. 

1 


98  THE    DREAM    OF    LITTLE    TUK. 

towers.  From  out  the  hill-side  spouted  foun 
tains  in  thick  streams  of  water,  so  that  there 
was  a  continual  splashing ;  and  close  beside 
them  sat  an  old  king  with  a  golden  crown 
upon  his  white  head :  that  was  King  Hroar, 
near  the  fountains,  close  to  the  town  of  Roes- 
kilde,  as  it  is  now  called.  And  up  the  slope 
into  the  old  church  went  all  the  kings  and 
queens  of  Denmark,  hand  in  hand,  all  with 
their  golden  crowns ;  and  the  organ  played 
and  the  fountains  rustled.  Little  Tuk  saw 
all,  heard  all.  "  Do  not  forget  the  diet,"  said 
King  Hroar.* 

Again  all  suddenly  disappeared.  Yes,  and 
whither  ?  It  seemed  to  him  just  as  if  one 
turned  over  a  leaf  in  a  book.  And  now  stood 
there  an  old  peasant-woman,  who  came  from 
Soroe,t   where  grass   grows  in  the  market- 

*  Roeskilde,  once  the  capital  of  Denmark.  The  town 
takes  its  name  from  King  Hroar,  and  the  many  fountains 
in  the  neighborhood.  In  the  beautiful  cathedral  the 
greater  number  of  the  kings  and  queens  of  Denmark 
are  interred.  In  Roeskilde,  too,  the  members  of  the 
Danish  Diet  assemble. 

tSoroe,  a  very  quiet  little  town,  beautifully  situated, 
surrounded  by  woods  and  lakes.  Holberg.  Denmark's 
Moliere,  founded  here  an  academy  for  the  sons  of  the 


THE    DREAM    OF    LITTLE    TUK. 


99 


place.  She  had  an  old  grey  linen  apron 
hanging  over  her  head  and  back :  it  was  so 
wet,  it  certainly  must  have  been  raining 
"  Yes,  that  it  has,"  said  she  ;  and  she  now 
related  many  pretty  things  out  of  Holberg's 
comedies,  and  about  Waldemar  and  Absalon ; 
but  all  at  once  she  cowered  together,  and  her 
head  began  shaking  backwards  and  forwards, 
and  she  looked  as  she  were  going  to  make  a 
spring.  "  Croak  !  croak  !"  said  she  :  "  it  is 
wet,  it  is  wet ;  there  is  such  a  pleasant  death- 
like stillness  in  Soroe  1 "  She  was  now  sud- 
denly a  frog,  "  Croak  ;"  and  now  she  was  an 
old  woman.  "  One  must  dress  according  to 
the  weather,"  said  she.  "  It  is  wet,  it  is  wet.- 
My  town  is  just  hke  a  bottle ;  and  one  gets 
in  by  the  neck,  and  by  the  neck  one  must  get 
out  again !  In  former  times  I  had  the  finest 
fish,  and  now  I  have  fresh  rosy-cheeked  boys 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bottle,  who  learn  wis- 
dom, Hebrew,  Greek,— Croak  !"  When  she 
spoke  it  sounded  just  like  the  noise  of  frogs, 
or  as  if  one  walked  with  great  boots  over  a 

nobles.     The  poets  Hauch  and  Ingemann  were  appoint- 
ed professors  here.     The  latter  lives  there  still. 


100         THE    DREAM    OF    LITTLE    TUK. 

moor ;  always  the  same  tone,  so  uniform  and 
BO  tiring  that  little  Tuk  fell  into  a  good  sound 
sleep,  which,  by  the  bye,  could  not  do  him 
any  harm. 

But  even  in  this  sleep  there  came  a  dream, 
or  whatever  else  it  was :  his  little  sister  Au- 
gusta, she  with  the  blue  eyes  and  the  fair 
curling  hair,  was  suddenly  a  tall,  beautiful 
girl,  and  without  having  wings  was  yet  able 
to  fly  ;  and  she  now  flew  over  Zealand — over 
the  green  woods  and  the  blue  lakes. 

"  Do  you  hear  the  cock  crow,  Tukey  ? 
cock-a-doodle-doo !  The  cocks  are  flying  up 
from  Kjoge  !  You  will  have  a  farm-yard,  so 
large,  oh !  so  very  large  !  You  will  suflfer 
neither  hunger  nor  thirst !  You  will  get  on 
in  the  world  !  You  will  be  a  rich  and  happy 
man  !  Your  house  will  exalt  itself  like  King 
Waldemar's  tower,  and  will  be  richly  deco- 
rated with  marble  statues,  like  that  at  Pras- 
toe.  You  understand  what  I  mean.  Your 
name  shall  circulate  with  renown  all  round 
the  earth,  like  unto  the  ship  that  was  to  have 
Bailed  from  Corsor  ;  and  in  Roeskilde  " 


"  Do  not  forget  the  diet ! "  said  King  Hroar. 
"  Then  you  will   speak  well  and  wisely, 


THE    DREAM    OF    LITTLE    TUK.         101 

little  Tukey  ;  and  when  at  last  you  sink  intc 
your  grave,  you  shall  sleep  as  quietly  " 

"  As  if  I  lay  in  Soroe,"  said  Tuk,  awaking. 
It  was  bright  day,  and  he  was  now  quite  un- 
able to  call  to  mind  his  dream ;  that,  how- 
ever, was  not  at  all  necessary,  for  one  may 
not  know  what  the  future  will  bring. 

And  out  of  bed  he  jumped,  and  read  in  his 
book,  and  now  all  at  once  he  knew  his  whole 
lesson.  And  the  old  washerwoman  popped 
her  head  in  at  the  door,  nodded  to  him  friendly, 
and  said,  "  Thanks,  many  thanks,  my  good 
child,  for  3^our  help !  May  the  good  ever- 
loving  God  fulfil  your  loveliest  dream  !" 

Little  Tukey  did  not  at  all  know  what  he 
had  dreamed,  but  the  loving  God  knew  it. 


THE   NAUGHTY  BOY, 


LONG  time  ago 
there  lived  an  old 
poet,  a  thoroughly 
kind  old  poet.  As 
he  was  sitting  one 
evening  in  his 
room,  a  dreadful 
storm  arose  with- 
out, and  the  rain  streamed  down  from  hea- 
ven ;  but  the  old  poet  sat  warm  and  comfor- 
table in  his  chimney-corner,  where,  the  fire 
blazed  and  the  roasting  apple  hissed. 

"  Those  who  have   not  a  roof  over  their 
heads  will  be  wetted  to  the  skin,"  said  the 
good  old  poet. 
"  Oh  let  me  in  !  let  me  in  !  I  am  cold,  and 
102 


THE    NAUGHTY    BOY.  103 

I'm  so  wet !"  exclaimed  suddenly  a  child 
that  stood  crying  at  the  door  and  knocking 
for  admittance,  while  the  rain  poured  down, 
and  the  wind  made  all  the  windows  rattle. 

"  Poor  thing  !"  said  the  old  poet,  as  he 
went  to  open  the  door.  There  stood  a  Httle 
boy,  quite  naked,  and  the  water  ran  down 
from  his  long  golden  hair;  he  trembled  with 
cold,  and  had  he  not  come  into  a  warm  room 
he  would  most  certainly  have  perished  in  the 
frightful  tempest. 

"Poor  child  !"  said  the  old  poet,  as  he  took 
the  boy  by  the  hand.  "Come  in,  come  in, 
and  I  will  soon  restore  thee  !  Thou  shalt 
have  wine  and  roasted  apples,  for  thou  art 
verily  a  charming  child!"  And  the  boy 
was  so  really.  His  eyes  were  like  two 
bright  stars  ;  and  although  the  water  trickled 
down  his  hair,  it  waved  in  beautiful  curls. 
He  looked  exactly  like  a  little  angel,  but  he 
was  so  pale,  and  his  whole  body  trembled 
with  cold.  He  had  a  nice  little  bow  in  his 
hand,  but  it  w^as  quite  spoiled  by  the  rain, 
and  the  tints  of  his  many-colored  arrows  ran 
one  into  the  other. 

The   old   poet   seated  himself  beside   his 
PP 


104  THE    NAUGHTY    BOY. 

hearth,  and  took  the  little  fellow  on  his  lap ; 
he  squeezed  the  water  out  of  his  dripping 
hair,  warmed  his  hands  between  his  own, 
and  boiled  for  him  some  sweet  wine.  Then 
the  boy  recovered,  his  cheeks  again  grew 
rosy,  he  jumped  down  from  the  lap  where 
he  was  sitting,  and  danced  round  the  kind 
old  poet. 

,,   ,"  You  are  a  merry  fellow,"  said  the  old 
man ;  "  what's  your  name  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Cupid,"  answered  the  boy. 
"  Don't  you  know  me  ?  There  lies  my  bow  ; 
it  shoots  well,  I  can  assure  you  !  Look,  the 
weather  is  now  clearing  up,  and  the  moon 
is  shining  clear  again  through  the  window." 

"Why,  your  bow  is  quite  spoiled,"  said 
the  old  poet. 

"That  were  sad  indeed,"  said  the  boy, 
and  he  took  the  bow  in  his  hand  and  ex- 
amined it  on  every  side.  "Oh,  it  is  dry 
again,  and  is  not  hurt  at  all ;  the  string  is 
quite  tight.  I  will  try  it  directly."  And 
he  bent  his  bow,  took  aim,  and  shot  an 
arrow  at  the  old  poet,  right  into  his  heart 
"  You  see  now  that  my  bow  was  not  spoiled," 
said  he,  laughing  ;  and  away  he  ran. 


THE    NAUGHTY    BOY.  105 

The  naughty  boy  !  to  shoot  the  old  poet 
in  that  way ;  he  who  had  taken  him  into 
his  wann  room,  who  had  treated  him  so 
kindly,  and  who  had  given  him  warm  wine 
and  the  very  best  apples  ! 

The  poor  poet  lay  on  the  earth  and  wept, 
for  the  arrow  had  really  flown  into  his  heart. 

"  Fie  !"  said  he,  "  how  naughty  a  boy 
Cupid  is  !  I  will  tell  all  children  about  him, 
that  they  may  take  care  and  not  play  with 
him,  for  he  will  only  cause  them  sorrow  and 
many  a  heart-ache." 

And  all  good  children  to  whom  he  related 
this  story,  took  great  heed  of  this  naughty 
Cupid ;  but  he  made  fools  of  them  still,  for 
he  is  astonishingly  cunning.  When  the 
university  students  come  from  the  lectures, 
he  runs  beside  them  in  a  black  coat,  and 
with  a  book  under  his  arm.  It  is  quite 
impossible  for  them  to  know  him,  and  they 
walk  along  with  him  arm  in  arm,  as  if  he. 
too,  were  a  student  like  themselves ;  and 
then,  unperceived,  he  thrusts  an  arrow  to 
their  bosom.  When  the  young  maidens 
come  from  being  examined  by  the  clergy- 
man, or  go  to  church  to  be  confirmed,  there 


106  THE    NAUGHTY    BOY. 

he  is  again  close  behind  them.  Yes,  he  is 
for  ever  following  people.  At  the  play  he 
sits  in  the  great  chandelier  and  burns  in 
bright  flames,  so  that  people  think  it  is 
really  a  flame,  but  they  soon  discover  it  is 
sometJring  else.  He  roves  about  in  the  gar- 
den of  the  palace  and  upon  the  ramparts : 
yes,  once  he  even  shot  your  father  and 
mother  right  in  the  heart.  Ask  them  only, 
and  you  will  hear  what  they'll  tell  you. 
Oh,  he  is  a  naughty  boy,  that  Cupid  ;  you 
must  never  have  anything  to  do  with  him. 
He  is  for  ever  running  after  everbody.  Only 
think,  he  shot  an  arrow  once  at  your  old 
grandmother !  But  that  is  a  long  time  ago, 
and  it  is  all  past  now  ;  however,  a  thing  of 
that  sort  she  never  forgets.  Fie,  naughty 
Cupid  !  But  now  you  know  him,  and  you 
know,  toOj  how  ill-behaved  he  is  ! 


THE  TWO  NEIGHBORING  FAMILIES. 


E  really  might  have  thought 
something  of  importance  was 
going  on  in  the  duck-pond,  but  there 
was  nothing  going  on.  All  the  ducks 
that  were  resting  tranquilly  on  the 
water,  or  were  standing  in  it  on  their  heads 
— for  that  they  were  able  to  do — swam  sud- 
denly to  the  shore:  you  could  see  in  the 
wet  ground  the  traces  of  their  feet,  and  hear 
their  quacking  far  and  near.  The  water, 
which  but  just  now  was  smooth  and  bright 
as  a  mirror,  was  quite  put  into  commo- 
tion. Before,  one  saw  every  tree  reflected 
107 


108        TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

in  it,  every  bush  that  was  near :  the  old 
farm-house,  with  the  holes  in  the  roof  and 
with  the  swallow's  nest  under  the  eaves ;  but 
principally,  however,  the  great  rose-bush, 
sown,  as  it  were,  with  flowers.  It  covered 
the  wall,  and  hung  forwards  over  the  water, 
in  which  one  beheld  the  whole  as  in  a  pic- 
ture, except  that  everything  was  upside 
down  ;  but  when  the  water  was  agitated,  all 
swam  away  and  the  picture  was  gone.  Two 
duck's  feathers,  which  the  fluttering  ducks 
had  lost,  were  rocking  to  and  fro :  suddenly 
they  flew  forwards  as  if  the  wind  were  com- 
ing, but  it  did  not  come :  they  were,  there- 
fore, obliged  to  remain  where  they  were,  and 
the  water  grew  quiet  and  smooth  again,  and 
again  the  roses  reflected  themselves — they 
were  so  beautiful,  but  that  they  did  not  know, 
for  nobody  had  told  them.  The  sun  shone 
in  between  the  tender  leaves — all  breathed 
the  most  beautiful  fragrance  ;  and  to  them 
it  was  as  with  us,  when  right  joyfully  we 
are  filled  with  the  thought  of  our  happiness. 
"  How  beautiful  is  existence !"  said  each 
rose.  "  There  is  but  one  thing  I  should  wish 
for, — to  kiss  the  sun,  because  it  is  so  bright 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.         109 

and  warm.*  The  roses  yonder,  too,  below  in 
the  water,  the  exact  image  of  ourselves — 
them  also  I  should  like  to  kiss,  and  the  nice 
little  birds  below  in  their  nest.  There  are 
some  above,  too  ;  they  stretch  out  their  heads 
and  chirrup  quite  loud  :  they  have  no  feathers 
at  all,  as  their  fathers  and  mothers  have. 
They  are  good  neighbors,  those  below  as  well 
as  those  above.     How  beautiful  existence  is  T' 

The  young  birds  above  and  below — those 
below  of  course  the  reflection  only  in  the 
water — were  sparrows :  their  parents  were 
likewise  sparrows  ;  and  they  had  taken  pos- 
session of  the  empty  swallow's  nest  of  the 
preceding  year,  and  now  dwelt  therein  as  if 
it  had  been  their  own  property. 

"  Are  those  little  duck  children  that  are 
swimming   there?"   asked   the   young  spar- 

*  In  Danish  the  sun  is  of  the  feminine  gender,  and 
not,  as  with  us,  when  personified,  spoken  of  as  '•  he." 
We  beg  to  make  this  observation,  lest  the  roses'  wish 
'*  to  kiss  the  sun,"  be  thought  unmaidenly.  We  are 
anxious,  also,  to  remove  a  stumbling  block,  which  might 
perchance  trip  up  exquisitely-refined  modern  notions. 
Badly  shocked,  no  doubt,  as  they  would  be,  at  such  an 
apparent  breach  of  modesty  and  decorum. — (Note  of  th* 
Translator. ) 


110        TWO    NEIG-HBORING    FANILIES. 

rows,  when  they  discovered  the  duck's  fea- 
thers  on  the  water. 

"  If  you  will  ask  questions,  do  let  them  be 
a  Uttle  rational  at  least,"  said  tli'  mother. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  they  are  feat  hers,  living 
stuff  for  clothing  such  as  I  wear,  and  such  as 
you  will  wear  also  ?  But  ours  is  finer.  I 
should,  however,  be  glad  if  we  had  it  up  here 
in  our  nest,  for  it  keeps  one  warm.  I  am  cu- 
rious to  know  at  what  the  ducks  were  so 
frightened  ;  at  us,  surely  not ;  'tis  true  I  said 
'chirp,'  to  you  rather  loud.  In  reality,  the 
thick-headed  roses  ought  to  know,  but  they 
know  nothing  ;  they  only  gaze  on  themselves 
and  smell :  for  my  part,  1  am  heartily  tired  of 
these  neighbors." 

"  Listen  to  the  charming  little  birds  above," 
said  the  roses,  "  they  begin  to  want  to  sing 
too,  but  they  cannot  as  yet.  However,  they 
will  do  so  by  and  by:  what  pleasure  that 
must  afford  !  It  is  so  pleasant  to  have  such 
merry  neighbors  !" 

Suddenly  two  horses  came  galloping  along 
to  be  watered.  A  peasant  boy  rode  on  one, 
and  he  had  taken  off  all  his  clothes  except  hia 
large  broad  black  hat.     The  youth  whistled 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.         Ill 

like  a  bird,  and  rode  into  the  pond  where  it 
was  deepest ;  and  as  he  passed  by  the  rose- 
bush he  gathered  a  rose  and  stuck  it  in  his 
hat ;  and  now  he  fancied  himself  very  fine, 
and  rode  on.  The  other  roses  looked  after 
their  sister,  and  asked  each  other,  "  Whither 
is  she  going  ?"  but  that  no  one  knew. 

"I  should  like  to  go  out  into  the  world," 
thought  one  ;  "  yet  here  at  home  amid  our 
foliage  it  is  also  beautiful.  By  day  the  sun 
shines  so  warm,  and  in  the  night  the  sky 
shines  still  more  beautifully  :  we  can  see  that 
through  all  the  little  holes  that  are  in  it." 
By  this  they  meant  the  stars,  but  they  did 
not  know  any  better. 

"  We  enliven  the  place,"  said  the  mamma 
sparrow ;  "  and  the  swallow's  nest  brings 
luck,  so  people  say,  and  therefore  people  are 
pleased  to  have  us.  But  our  neighbors  ! 
Such  a  rose-bush  against  the  wall  produces 
damp  ;  it  will  doubtless  be  cleared  away,  and 
then,  perhaps,  some  corn  at  least  may  grow 
there.  The  roses  are  good  for  nothing  ex- 
cept to  look  at  and  to  smell,  and,  at  most  to 
put  into  one's  hat.  Every  year — that  I  know 
from  my  mother — they  fall  away ;  the  pea- 


112 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 


Bants  wife  collects  them  together  and  strews 
salt  among  them;  they  then  receive  a 
French  name  which  I  neither  can  nor  care  to 
pronounce,  and  are  put  upon  the  fire,  when 
they  are  to  give  a  pleasant  odor.  Look  ye, 
such  is  their  life  ;  they  are  only  here  to  please 
the  eye  and  nose !  And  so  now  you  know 
the  whole  matter." 

As  the  evening  came  on,  and  the  gnats 
played  in  the  warm  air  and  in  the  red  clouds, 
the  nightingale  came  and  sang  to  the  roses  ; 
sang  that  the  beautiful  is  as  the  sunshine  in 
this  world,  and  that  the  beautiful  lives  for 
ever.  But  the  roses  thought  that  the  night- 
ingale sang  his  own  praise,  which  one  might 
very  well  have  fancied  ;  for  that  the  song  re- 
lated to  them,  of  that  they  never  thought : 
they  rejoiced  in  it,  however,  and  meditated  if 
perhaps  all  the  little  sparrows  could  become 
nightingales  too. 

"I  understood  the  song  of  that  bird  quite 
well,''  said  the  young  sparrows;  "one  word 
only  was  not  quite  clear  to  me.  What  waa 
the  meaning  of  '  the  beautiful  V  " 

"That  is  nothing,"  said  the  mamma  spar- 
row ,  "  that  is  only  something  external.    Yon- 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.         113 

der  at  the  mansion,  where  the  pigeons  have 
a  house  of  their  own,  and  where  every  day 
peas  and  corn  is  strewn  before  them — I  have 
myself  eaten  there  with  them,  and  you  shall, 
too,  in  time ;  tell  me  what  company  you  keep. 
and  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are — yes,  yonder  at 
the  mansion  they  have  got  two  birds  with 
green  necks  and  a  comb  on  their  head  ;  they 
can  spread  out  their  tail  like  a  great  wheel, 
and  in  it  plays  every  color,  that  it  quite  hurts 
one's  eyes  to  look  at  it.  These  birds  are 
called  peacocks,  and  that  is  'the  beauti- 
ful.' They  only  want  to  be  plucked  a  little, 
and  then  they  would  not  look  at  all  different 
from  the  rest  of  us.  I  would  already  have 
plucked  them,  if  they  had  not  been  quite  so 

big." 

"I  will  pluck  them,"  chirped  the  small- 
est sparrow,  that  as  yet  had  not  a  single  fea- 
ther. 

In  the  peasant's  cottage  dwelt  a  young 
married  couple ;  they  loved  each  other  dearly, 
and  were  industrious  and  active :  everything 
in  their  house  looked  so  neat  and  pretty.  On 
Sunday  morning  early  the  young  woman 
came  out,  gathered  a  handful  of  the  most 
8 


114        TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

beautiful  roses,  and  put  them  into  a  glass  of 
water,  which  she  placed  on  the  shelf. 

"  Now  I  see  that  it  is  Sunday,"  said  the 
man,  and  kissed  his  little  wife.  They  sat 
down,  read  in  the  hymn-book,  and  held  each 
other  by  the  hand :  the  sun  beamed  on  the 
fresh  roses  and  on  the  young  married  couple. 

"  This  is  really  too  tiring  a  sight,"  said  the 
mamma  sparrow,  who  from  her  nest  could 
look  into  the  room,  and  away  she  flew. 

The  next  Sunday  it  was  the  same,  for 
every  Sunday  fresh  roses  were  put  in  the 
glass :  yet  the  rose-tree  bloomed  on  equally 
beautiful.  The  young  sparrows  had  now 
feathers,  and  wanted  much  to  fly  with  their 
mother  ;  she,  however,  would  not  allow  it,  so 
they  were  forced  to  remain.  Off  she  flew ; 
but,  however,  it  happened,  before  she  was 
aware,  she  got  entangled  in  a  springe  of 
horse-hair,  which  some  boys  had  set  upon  a 
bough.  The  horse-hair  drew  itself  tightly 
round  her  leg,  so  tightly  as  though  it  would 
cut  it  in  two.  That  was  an  agony,  a  fright! 
The  boys  ran  to  the  spot  and  caught  hold 
of  the  bird,  and  that  too  in  no  very  gentle 
manner. 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.       115 

"  It's  only  a  sparrow,"  said  they  ;  but  they, 
Qevertheless,  did  not  let  her  fly,  but  took  her 
home  with  them,  and  every  time  she  cried 
they  gave  her  a  tap  on  the  beak. 

There  stood  in  the  farm-yard  an  old  man, 
who  knew  how  to  make  shaving-soap  and 
eoap  for  washing,  in  square  cakes  as  well  as 
in  round  balls.  He  was  a  merry,  wandering 
old  man.  When  he  saw  the  sparrow  that 
the  boys  had  caught,  and  which,  as  they 
said,  they  did  not  care  about  at  all,  he  asked, 
"  Shall  we  make  something  very  fine  of 
him  ?"  Mamma  sparrow  felt  an  icy  coldness 
creep  over  her.  Out  of  the  box,  in  which 
were  the  most  beautiful  colors,  the  old  man 
took  a  quantity  of  gold  leaf,  and  the  boys 
were  obliged  to  go  and  fetch  the  white  of  an 
egg,  with  which  the  sparrow  was  painted  all 
over  ;  on  this  the  gold  was  stuck,  and  mam- 
ma sparrow  was  now  entirely  gilded ;  but 
she  did  not  think  of  adornment,  for  she  trem- 
bled in  every  limb.  And  the  soap-dealer 
tore  a  bit  off  the  lining  of  his  old  jacket,  cut 
scollops  in  It  so  that  it  might  look  like  a 
cock's  comb,  and  stuck  it  on  the  head  of  the 
bird. 


116         TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

"  Now,  then,  you  shall  see  master  gold- 
coat  fly."  said  the  old  man,  and  let  the 
sparrow  go,  who,  in  deadly  fright,  flew  off, 
illumined  by  the  beaming  sun.  How  she 
shone  !  All  the  sparrows,  even  a  crow,  al- 
though an  old  fellow,  were  much  frightened 
at  the  sight ;  they,  however  flew  on  after 
him,  in  order  to  learn  what  foreign  bird  it  was- 

Impelled  by  anguish  and  terror,  he  flew 
homewards  :  he  was  near  falling  exhausted 
to  the  earth.  The  crowd  of  pursuing  birds 
increased ;  yes,  some  indeed  even  tried  to 
peck  at  him. 

"  Look  !  there's  a  fellow !  Look  !  there's  a 
fellow  !"  screamed  they  all. 

"  Look  !  there's  a  fellow  !  Look  !  there's 
a  fellow  !"  cried  the  young  sparrows,  as  the 
old  one  approached  the  nest.  "That,  for 
certain,  is  a  young  peacock ;  all  sorts  of 
colors  are  playing  in  his  feathers  :  it  quite 
hurts  one's  eyes  to  look  at  him,  just  as  our 
mother  told  us.  Chirp  !  chirp  !  That  is  the 
beautiful!"  And  now  they  began  pecking 
at  the  bird  with  their  little  beaks,  so  that  it 
'  was  quite  impossible  for  the  sparrow  to  get 
into  the  nest :  she  was  so  sadly  used  that  she 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.       117 

could  not  even  say  "Chirrup,"  still  less, 
"  Why,  I  am  your  own  mother  !"  The  othei 
birds,  too,  now  set  upon  the  sparrow,  and 
plucked  out  feather  after  feather  ;  so  that  at 
last  she  fell  bleeding  in  the  rose-bush  below. 

"  Oh  !  poor  thing ! "  said  all  the  roses,  "  be 
quieted  ;  we  will  hide  you.  Lean  your  little 
head  on  us." 

The  sparrow  spread  out  her  wings  once 
more,  then  folded  them  close  to  her  body,  and 
lay  dead  in  the  midst  of  the  family  who  were 
her  neighbors, — the  beautiful  fresh  roses. 

"Chirp!  chirp!"  sounded  from  the  nest. 
"  Where  can  our  mother  be  ?  It  is  quite  in- 
conceivable !  It  cannot  surely  be  a  trick  of 
hers  by  which  she  means  to  tell  us  that  we 
are  now  to  provide  for  ourselves  ?  She  has 
left  us  the  house  as  an  inheritance;  but  to 
which  of  us  is  it  exclusively  to  belong,  when 
we  ourselves  have  families.^" 

"Yes,  that  will  never  do  that  you  stay 
here  with  me  when  my  household  is  increas- 
ed by  the  addition  of  a  wife  and  children," 
said  the  smallest. 

"  I  shall  have,  I  should  think,  more  wivea 
and  children  than  you,"  said  the  second. 


118       TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

"But  I  am  the  eldest,"  said  the  third. 
They  ail  now  grew  passionate ;  they  beat 
each  other  with  their  wings,  pecked  with 
their  beaks,  when,  plump  I  one  after  the  other 
was  tumbled  out  of  the  nest.  There  they 
lay  with  their  rage  ;  they  turned  their  heads 
on  one  side,  and  winked  their  eyes  as  they 
looked  upward :  that  was  their  way  of  play- 
ing the  simpleton.  They  could  fly  a  little, 
and  by  practice  they  learned  to  do  so  still 
better ;  and  they  finally  were  unanimous  as 
to  a  sign  by  which,  when  at  some  future  time 
they  should  meet  again  in  the  world,  they 
might  recognise  each  other.  It  was  to  con- 
sist in  a  "  Chirrup  !"  and  in  a  thrice-repeated 
scratching  on  the  ground  with  the  left  leg. 

The  young  sparrow  that  had  been  left  be- 
hind in  the  nest  spread  himself  out  to  his  full 
size.  He  was  now,  you  know,  a  householder  ; 
but  his  grandeur  did  not  last  long :  in  the 
night  red  fire  broke  through  the  windows,  the 
flames  seized  on  the  roof,  the  dry  thatch 
blazed  up  high,  the  whole  house  w^as  burnt, 
and  the  young  sparrow  with  it;  but  the 
yoimg  married  couple  escaped,  fortunately, 
with  life.     When  the  sun  rose  again,  and 


TWO     NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.        119 

every  thing  looked  so  refreshed  and  invigo- 
rated, as  after  a  peaceful  sleep,  there  was 
nothing  left  of  the  cottage  except  some  charr- 
ed hlack  beams  leaning  against  the  chimney, 
which  now  was  its  own  master.  A  great 
deal  of  smoke  still  rose  from  the  ground,  but 
witliout,  quite  uninjured,  stood  the  rose-bush, 
fresh  and  blooming,  and  mirrored  every  flower, 
every  branch,  in  the  clear  water. 

"  Oh  !  how  beautifully  the  roses  are  bloom- 
ing in  front  of  the  burnt-down  house  !"  cried 
a  passer-by.  "  It  is  impossible  to  fancy  a 
more  lovely  picture.     I  must  have  that !" 

And  the  man  took  a  little  book  with  white 
leaves  out  of  his  pocket :  he  was  a  painter, 
and  with  a  pencil  he  drew  the  smoking 
house,  the  charred  beams,  and  the  toppling 
chimney,  which  now  hung  over  more  and 
more.  But  the  large  and  blooming  rose-tree, 
quite  in  the  foreground,  afforded  a  magnifi- 
cent sight ;  it  was  on  its  account  alone  that 
the  whole  picture  had  been  made. 

Later  in  the  day  two  of  the  sparrows  who 
had  been  born  here  passed  by.  "  Where  is 
the  house  ?  "  asked  they.     "  Where  the  nest  1 

qq 


120        TWO     NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

Chirp !  chirp !  All  is  burnt  down,  and  our 
strong  brother —that  is  Avhat  he  has  got  for 
keeping  the  nest.  The  roses  have  escaped 
well ;  there  they  are  yet  standing  Avith  their 
red  cheeks.  They,  forsooth,  do  not  mourn 
at  the  misfortune  of  their  neighbors.  T  have 
no  wish  whatever  to  address  them  ;  and,  be- 
sides, it  is  very  ugly  here,  that's  my  opinion." 
And  off  and  away  they  flew. 

On  a  beautiful,  bright,  sunny  autumn  day 
—one  might  almost  have  thought  it  was  still 
the  middle  of  summer— the  pigeons  were 
strutting  about  the  dry  and  nicely-swept 
court-yard  in  front  of  the  great  steps— black 
and  white  and  party-colored— and  they  shone 
in  the  sunshine.  The  old  mamma  pigeon 
said  to  the  young  ones  :  "  Form  yourselves  in 
groups,  form  yourselves  in  groups,  for  that 
makes  a  much  better  appearance." 

"V/hat  little  brown  creatures  are  those 
running  about  amongst  us?"  asked  an  old 
pigeon,  whose  eyes  were  green  and  yellow. 
"Poor  little  brownies  !  poor  little  brownies  !" 

"  They  are  sparrows :  we  have  always  had 
the  reputation  of  being  kind  and  gentle  ;  we 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.        121 

will,  therefore,  allow  them  to  pick  up  the 
grain  with  us.  They  never  mix  in  the  con- 
versation, and  they  scrape  a  leg  so  prettily." 

"  Yes,  they  scratched  three  times  with  their 
leg,  and  with  the  left  leg  too,  and  said  also 
"  Chirrup ! "  It  is  by  this  they  recognised 
each  other ;  for  they  were  three  sparrows 
out  of  the  nest  of  the  house  that  had  been 
burnt  down. 

"  Very  good  eating  here,"  said  one  of  the 
sparrows.  The  pigeons  strutted  round  each 
other,  drew  themselves  up,  and  had  inwardly 
their  own  views  and  opinions. 

"  Do  you  see  the  cropper  pigeon  ? "  said 
one  of  the  others.  "Do  you  see  how  she 
swallows  the  peas  ?  She  takes  too  many, 
and  the  very  best  into  the  bargain  ! " — "  Coo  ! 
coo  ! " — "  How  she  puts  up  her  top-knot,  the 
ugly,  mischievous  creature !"  "  Coo !  coo !  coo  T 

And  every  eye  sparkled  with  malice. 
"  Form  yourselves  in  groups  !  form  yourselves 
in  groups  !  Little  brown  creatures  !  Poor 
little  brownies  !  Coo  !  coo  !"  So  it  went  on 
unceasingly,  and  so  will  they  go  on  chatter- 
ing in  a  thousand  years  to  come. 

The   sparrows  ate   right   bravely.     The} 


122        TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

listened  attentively  to  what  was  said,  and 
even  placed  themselves  in  a  row  side  by  side, 
with  the  others.  It  was  not  at  all  becoming 
to  them,  however.  They  were  not  satisfied, 
and  they  therefore  quitted  the  pigeons,  and 
exchanged  opinions  about  them ;  nestled 
along  under  the  garden  palisades,  and,  as 
they  found  the  door  of  the  room  open  that 
led  upon  the  lawn,  one  of  them,  who  was 
filled  to  satiety,  and  was  therefore  over-bold, 
hopped  upon  the  threshold.  "  Chirrup  ! "  said 
he,  "  I  dare  to  venture  ! " 

"  Chirrup  !"  said  another,  "  I  dare,  too,  and 
more  besides  !"  and  he  hopped  into  the  cham- 
ber. No  one  was  present :  the  third  saw  this, 
and  flew  still  further  into  the  room,  calling 
out,  "  Either  all  or  nothing  !  However,  'tis  a 
curious  human  nest  that  we  have  here ;  and 
what  have  they  put  up  there?  What  is 
that?" 

Close  in  front  of  the  sparrows  bloomed  the 
roses  ;  they  mirrored  themselves  in  the  water, 
and  the  charred  rafters  leaned  against  the 
over-hanging  chimney.  But  what  can  that 
be  ?  how  comes  this  in  the  room  of  the  man- 
sion?    And  all  three  sparrows  were  about  to 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.        123 

fly  away  over  the  roses  and  the  chimney,  but 
they  flew  against  a  flat  wall.  It  was  all  a 
picture,  a  large,  beautiful  picture,  which  the 
painter  had  executed  after  the  little  sketch. 

"  Chirrup  !"  said  the  sparrows,  "  it  is  no- 
thing !  It  only  looks  like  something.  Chirrup  ! 
That  is  beautiful !  Can  you  comprehend  it  ? 
I  cannot !"  And  away  they  flew,  for  people 
came  into  the  room. 

Days  and  months  passed,  the  pigeons  had 
often  cooed,  the  sparrows  had  suffered  cold 
in  winter,  and  in  summer  lived  right  jollily  : 
they  were  all  betrothed  and  married,  or  what- 
ever you  choose  to  call  it.  They  had  young 
ones,  and  each  naturally  considered  his  the 
handsomest  and  the  cleverest :  one  flew  here, 
another  there  ;  and  if  they  met  they  recog- 
nised each  other  by  the  "  Chirrup  ?"  and  by 
the  thrice-repeated  scratching  with  the  left- 
leg.  The  eldest  sparrow  had  remained  an 
old  maid,  who  had  no  nest  and  no  family ; 
her  favorite  notion  was  to  see  a  large  town, 
so  away  she  flew  to  Copenhagen. 

There  one  beheld  a  large  house,  painted 
with  many  bright  colors,  quite  close  to  th« 
eanal,  in  which  lay  many  barges  laden  with 


124        TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

earthen  pots  and  apples.  The  windows  were 
broader  below  than  above,  and  when  the 
sparrow  pressed  through,  every  room  appeared 
like  a  tulip,  with  the  most  varied  colors 
Lnd  shades,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  tuhp 
white  men  were  standing :  they  were  of 
marble,  some,  too,  were  of  plaister  ;  but  when 
viewed  with  a  sparrow's  eyes,  they  are  the 
same.  Up  above  on  the  roof  stood  a  metal 
chariot,  with  metal  horses  harnessed  to  it ; 
and  the  goddess  of  victory,  also  of  metal,  held 
the  reins.  It  was  Thorwaldsen's  Museum. 
"How  it  shines!  How  it  shines!"  said 
the  old  maiden  sparrow.  That,  doubtless, 
is  '  the  beautiful.'  Chirrup  !  But  here  it  is 
larger  than  a  peacock  !"  She  remembered 
still  what  her  mother,  when  she  was  a  child, 
bad  looked  upon  as  the  grandest  among  all 
beautiful  things.  The  sparrow  fled  down 
into  the  court :  all  was  so  magnificent , 
Palms  and  foliage  were  painted  on  the  walls. 
In  the  middle  of  the  court  stood  a  large, 
blooming  rose-tree ;  it  spread  out  its  fresh 
branches,  with  its  many  roses,  over  a  grave. 
Thither  flew  the  old  maiden  sparrow,  foi 
she  saw  there  many  of  her  sort.     "Chirrup!" 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES.        125 

and  three  scrapes  with  the  left  leg.  Thus 
had  she  often  saluted,  from  one  year's  end  to 
the  other,  and  nobody  had  answered  the 
greeting — for  those  who  are  once  separated 
do  not  meet  again  every  day — till  at  last 
the  salutation  had  grown  into  a  habit.  But 
to-day,  however,  two  old  sparrows  and  one 
young  one  answered  with  a  "  Churup  !"  and 
with  a  thrice-repeated  scrape  of  the  left  leg. 

"Ah,  good  day,  good  day!"  It  was  two 
old  birds  from  the  nest,  and  a  little  one  be- 
sides, of  the  family.  "  That  we  should  meet 
here  !  It  is  a  very  grand  sort  of  place,  but 
there  is  nothing  to  eat  here :  that  is  '  the 
beautiful !  Chirrup  !" 

And  many  persons  advanced  from  the  side 
apartments,  where  the  magnificent  marble 
figures  stood,  and  approached  the  grave  that 
hid  the  great  master  who  had  formed  the 
marble  figures.  All  stood  with  glorified 
countenances  around  Thorwaldsen's  grave, 
and  some  picked  up  the  shed  rose-leaves  and 
carefully  guarded  them.  They  had  come 
from  far — one  from  mighty  England,  others 
from  Germany  and  France  :  the  most  lovely 
lady  gathered  one  of  the  roses  and  hid  it  in 


126        TWO    NEIGHBORING    FAMILIES. 

her  bosom.  Then  the  sparrows  thought  that 
the  roses  g-overned  here,  and  that  the  whole 
house  had  been  buih  on  account  of  them. 
Now,  this  seemed  to  them,  at  all  events,  too 
much  ;  however,  as  it  was  for  the  roses  that 
the  persons  showed  all  their  love,  they  would 
remain  no  longer.  "  Chirrup !"  said  they, 
and  swept  the  floor  with  their  tails,  and 
winked  with  one  eye  at  the  roses.  They  had 
not  looked  at  them  long  before  they  convinced 
themselves  that  they  were  their  old  neigh- 
bors. And  they  really  were  so.  The 
painter  who  had  drawn  the  rose-bush  beside 
the  burned-down  house,  had  afterwards  ob- 
tained permission  to  dig  it  up,  and  had  given 
it  to  the  architect — for  more  beautiful  roses 
had  never  been  seen — and  the  architect  had 
planted  it  on  Thorwaldsen's  grave,  where  it 
bloomed  as  a  symbol  of  the  beautiful,  and 
gave  up  its  red  fragrant  leaves  to  be  carried 
to  distant  lands  as  a  remembrance. 

"  Have  you  got  an  appointment  he^e  in 
town  ?"  asked  the  sparrows. 

And  the  roses  nodded :  they  recognised 
their  brown  neighbors,  and  rejoiced  to  see 
them  again.     "How  dehghtful  it   is  to  live 


TWO    NEIGHBORING    FHMILIES.        127 

and  to  bloom,  to  see  old  friends  again,  and 
every  day  to  look  on  happy  faces !  It  is  as 
if  every  day  were  a  holy-day." 

"  Chirrup  !"  said  the  sparrows.  "  Yes,  it 
is  in  truth  our  old  neighbors  ;  their  origin 
— from  the  pond^s  still  quite  clear  in  our 
memory  !  Chirmp  1  How  they  have  risen 
in  the  world !  Yes,  Fortune  favors  some 
while  they  sleep !  Ah !  there  is  a  withered 
leaf  that  I  see  quite  plainly."  And  they 
pecked  at  it  so  long  till  the  leaf  fell  off;  and 
the  tree  stood  there  greener  and  more  fresh, 
the  roses  gave  forth  their  fragrance  in  the 
sunshine  over  Thorwaldsen's  grave,  with 
whose  immortal  name  they  weie  unitxid. 


r  i 


THE   DARNING-NEEDLE. 


jHERE  was  once  upon  a  time 
^  a  darning  needle,  that  imagined 
itself  so  fine,  that  at  last  it  fan- 
cied it  was  a  sewing-needle. 

Now,  pay  attention,  and  hold 
me  firmly  P'  said  the  darning-needle  to 
the  fingers  that  were  taking  it  out. 
"  Do  not  let  me  fall !  If  I  fall  on  the  ground, 
I  shall  certainly  never  be  found  again,  so  fine 
am  I." 

"Pretty  well  as  to  that,"  answered  the 
fingers ;  and  so  saying,  they  took  hold  of  it 
by  the  body. 

"  Look,  I  come  with  a   train !"    said   the 
darning-needle,  drawing  a  long  thread  after 
it,  but  there  was  no  knot  to  the  thread. 
The  fingers  directed   the   needle   against 
128 


THE    DARNING-NEEDLE.  129 

an  old  pair  of  shoes  belonging  to  the  cook. 
The  upper-leather  was  torn,  and  it  was  now 
to  be  sewed  together, 

"That  is  vulgar  work,"  said  the  needle; 
"  I  can  never  get  through  it.  I  shall  break  I 
I  shall  break  !"  And  it  really  did  break.  "  Did 
I  not  say  so  ?"  said  the  needle  ;  "  I  am  too 
delicate," 

"Now  it's  good  for  nothing,"  said  the 
fingers,  but  they  were  obliged  to  hold  it  still ; 
the  cook  dropped  sealing-wax  upon  it,  and 
pinned  her  neckerchief  together  with  it 

"  Well,  now  I  am  a  breast-pin,"  said  the 
darning-needle.  "  I  was  sure  I  should  be 
raised  to  honor:  if  one  is  something,  one 
is  sure  to  get  on !"  and  at  the  same  time  it 
laughed  inwardly ;  for  one  can  never  see 
when  a  darning-needle  laughs.  So  there  it 
sat  now  as  proudly  as  in  a  state-carriage,  and  1 
looked  around  on  every  side, 

"  May  I  take  the  liberty  to  inquire  if  you  I 
are  of  gold  ?"  asked  the  needle  of  a  pin  | 
that  was  its  neighbor.  You  have  a  splendid  j 
exterior,  and  a  head  of  your  own,  but  it  is 
small,  however.  You  must  do  what  you 
can  to  grow,  for  it  is  not  every  one  that  is 
9 


130  THE,    DARNING-NEEDLE. 

bedi'opped  with  sealing-wax !"  And  then 
the  darning-needle  drew  itself  up  so  high 
that  it  fell  out  of  the  kerchief,  and  tumbled 
right  into  the  sink,  which  the  cook  was  at 
that  moment  rinsing  out. 

"  Now  we  are  going  on  our  travels,"  said 
the  needle.  "  If  only  I  do  not  get  lost !"  But 
It  really  did  get  lost. 

"  I  am  too  dehcate  for  this  world  !"  said 
the  needle,  as  it  lay  in  the  sink,  "  but  1  know 
who  I  am,  and  that  is  always  a  consolation  ;" 
and  the  darning-needle  maintained  its  proud 
demeanor,  and  lost  none  of  its  good-humor. 

And  all  sorts  of  things  swam  over  it — 
shavings,  straws,  and  scraps  of  old  news- 
papers. 

"  Only  look  how  they  sail  by,"  said  the 
needle.  "  They  do  not  know  what  is  hidden 
below  them  !  I  stick  fast  here :  here  I  sit. 
Look  !  there  goes  a  shaving :  it  thinks  of  no- 
thing in  the  world  but  of  itself — but  of  a  shav- 
ing !  There  drifts  a  straw ;  and  how  it  tacks 
about,  how  it  turns  round  !  Think  of  some- 
thing else  besides  yourself,  or  else  perhaps 
you'll  run  against  a  stone  !  There  swims  a  bi  t 
of  a  newspaper.  What's  written  there  is  long 


THE    DARNINCx-NEEDLE.  131 

ago  forgotten,  and  yet  out  it  spreads  itself,  as 
if  it  were  mighty  important !  I  s^it  here  patient 
and  still :  I  know  wiio  I  am,  and  that  I  shall 
remain  after  all!" 

One  day  there  lay  something  close  beside 
the  needle.  It  glittered  so  splendidly,  that 
the  needle  thought  it  must  be  a  diamond: 
but  it  was  only  a  bit  of  a  broken  bottle,  and 
because  it  glittered  the  darning-needle  ad- 
dressed it,  and  introduced  itself  to  the  other 
as  a  breast-pin. 

"  You  are,  no  doubt,  a  diamond  ?" 

'^Yes,  something  of  that  sort."  And  so 
each  thought  the  other  something  very  pre- 
cious, and  they  talked  together  of  the  world, 
and  of  how  haughty  it  is, 

"I  was  with  a  certain  miss,  in  a  little  box," 
said  the  darning-needle,  "  and  this  miss  was 
cook  ;  and  on  each  hand  she  had  five  fingers. 
In  my  whole  life  I  have  never  seen  anything 
so  conceited  as  these  fingers  !  And  yet  they 
were  only  there  to  take  me  out  of  the  box  and 
to  put  me  back  into  it  again  !" 

"  Were  they,  then,  of  noble  birth  V  asked 
the  broken  bottle. 

"  Noble  !"    said  the  darning-needle  ;    ^^  no, 


132  THE    DARNING-NEEDLE. 

but  high-minded !  There  were  five  brothers, 
all  descendants  of  the  '  Fingei'  family.  Theji 
always  kept  together,  although  they  were  oi 
different  lengths.  The  outermost  one,  little 
Thumb,  was  short  and  stovU ;  he  went  at 
the  side,  a  little  in  front  of  the  ranks :  he 
had,  too,  but  one  joint  in  his  back,  so  that 
lie  could  only  make  one  bow ;  but  he  said,  if 
a  man  were  to  cut  him  off,  such  an  one  were 
no  longer  fit  for  military  service.  Sweet- 
tooth,  the  second  finger,  pryed  into  what  was 
sweet,  as  well  as  into  what  was  sour,  pointed 
to  the  sun  and  moon,  and  he  it  was  that 
gave  stress  when  they  wrote.  Longman,  the 
third  brother,  looked  at  the  others  con- 
temptuously over  his  shoulder.  Goldrim,  the 
fourth,  wore  a  golden  girdle  round  his  body  I 
and  the  little  Peter  Playallday  did  nothing 
at  all,  of  which  he  was  very  proud.  'Twas 
boasting,  and  boasting,  and  nothing  but  boast- 
mg,  and  so  away  I  went." 

"And  now  we  sit  here  and  glitter,'^  said 
the  broken  glass  bottle. 

At  the  same  moment  more  water  came 
along  the  gutter  ;  it  streamed  over  the  sides 
and  carried  the  bit  of  bottle  away  wilh  it 


THE    DARNING-NEEDLE.  133 

"  Well,  that's  an  advancement,"  said  the 
darning-needle.  "  I  remain  where  I  am  :  I 
am  too  fine ;  but  that  is  just  my  prile,  and 
as  such  is  to  be  respected."  And  there  it  sat 
so  proudly,  and  had  many  grand  thoughts. 

"  I  should  almost  think  that  I  was  born  of 
a  sunbeam,  so  fine  am  I !  It  seems  to  me, 
too,  as  if  the  sunbeams  were  always  seek- 
ing me  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Ah  !  I  am  so  fine,  that  my  mother  is  unable 
to  find  me  !  Had  I  my  old  eye  that  broke,  1 
verily  think  I  could  weep  ;  but  I  would  not 
— weep  !  no,  it's  not  genteel  to  weep  ! " 

One  day  two  boys  came  rummaging  about 
in  the  sink,  where  they  found  old  nails,  far- 
things, and  such  sort  of  things.  It  was  dirty 
work  ;  however,  they  took  pleasure  in  it. 

"Oh  !"  cried  one  who  had  pricked  himself 
with  the  needle,  "  there's  a  fellow  for  you." 

"  I  am  no  fellow,  I  am  a  lady ! "  said  the 
darning-needle ;  but  no  one  heard  it.  The 
.ealing-wax  had  worn  off,  and  it  had  become 
uite  black  ;  but  black  makes  one  look  more 
Blender,  and  the  needle  fancied  it  looked  more 
delicate  than  ever. 

"Here  coines  an  egg-shell  saihng  along  !' 


134  THE    DARNING-NEEDLE. 

said  the  boys  ;  and  then  they  stuck  the  needle 
upright  in  the  egg-shell. 

"  The  walls  white  and  myself  black,"  said 
the  needle.  "That  is  becoming!  People 
can  see  me  now  !  If  only  1  do  not  get  sea- 
sick, for  then  I  shall  snap." 

But  it  was  not  sea-sick,  and  did  not  snap. 

"It  is  good  for  sea-sickness  to  have  a 
stomach  of  steel,  and  not  to  forget  that  one 
is  something  more  than  a  human  being ! 
Now  my  sea-sickness  is  over.  The  finer  one 
is,  the  more  one  can  endure !" 

"  Crack  ! "  said  the  egg-shell :  a  wheel  went 
over  it. 

"  Good  heavens  !  how  heavy  that  presses  !" 
said  the  needle.  Now  I  shall  be  sea-sick ! 
I  snap!"  But  it  did  not  snap,  although  a 
wheel  went  over  it.  It  lay  there  at  full  length, 
and  there  it  may  lie  stilL 


THE  LITTLE   MATCH  GIRL. 


OST  terribly  cold 

it  was ;  it  snowed, 

and    was     nearly 

quite   dark,    and    eve- 

ninsf — the  last  evenins: 


of  the  year.  In  this 
cold  and  darkness  there 
went  along  the  street 
a  poor  little  girl,  bareheaded,  and 
"^  with  naked  feet.  When  she  left 
ome  she  had  slippers  on,  it  is  true ;  but 
what  was  the  good  of  that?  They  were 
very  large  slippers,  which  her  mother  had 
hitherto  worn ;  so  large  were  they ;  and 
the  poor  little  thing  lost  them  as  she  scuf- 
fled away  across  the  street,  because  of  two 
carriages  that  rolled  by  dreadfully  fast 
133 


136  THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL. 

One  slipper  was  nowhere  to  be  found ;  the 
other  had  been  laid  hold  of  by  an  urchin, 
and  off  he  ran  with  it ;  he  thought  it  would 
do  capitally  for  a  cradle  when  he  some  day 
or  other  should  have  children  himself.  fSo 
the  little  maiden  walked  on  wHh  her  tiny 
naked  feet,  that  were  quite  reci  and  blue 
from  cold.  She  carried  a  quantity  of  match- 
es in  an  old  apron,  and  she  held  a  bundle  of 
them  in  her  hand.  Nobody  had  bought  any- 
thing of  her  the  whole  livelong  day  ;  no  one 
had  given  her  a  single  farthing. 

She  crept  along  trembhng  with  cold  and 
hunger — a  very  picture  of  sorrow,  the  poor 
little  thing ! 

The  flakes  of  snow  covered  her  long  fair 
hair,  which  fell  in  beautiful  curls  around  her 
neck ;  but  of  that,  of  course,  she  never  once 
now  thought.  From  all  the  windows  the 
candles  were  gleaming,  and  it  smelt  so 
deliciously  of  roast  goose,  for  you  know  it 
was  new  year's  eve ;  yes,  of  that  she  thoughU 

In  a  cornea"  formed  by  two  houses,  of  which 
one  advanced  more  than  the  other,  she  seated 
herself  down  and  cowered,  together.  Her 
little  feet  she  had  drawn  close  up  to  her,  but 


THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL.  137 

she  grew  colder  and  colder,  and  to  go  home 
she  did  not  venture,  for  she  had  not  sold  any 
matches  and  could  not  bring  a  farthing  of 
money  :  from  her  father  she  Avould  certainly 
get  blows,  and  at  home  it  was  cold  too,  for 
above  her  she  had  only  the  roof,  through 
which  the  wind  whistled,  even  though  the 
largest  cracks  were  stopped  up  with  straw 
and  rags.^ 

Her  little  hands  were  almost  numbed  with 
cold.  Oh  !  a  match  might  afford  her  a  Avorld 
of  comfort,  if  she  only  dared  take  a  single 
one  out  of  the  bundle,  draw  it  against  the  wall, 
and  warm  her  fingers  by  it.  She  drew  one 
out.  "  Rischt ! "  how  it  blazed,  how  it  burnt ! 
It  was  a  warm,  bright  flame,  like  a  candle, 
as  she  held  her  hands  over  it :  it  was  a  won- 
derful light.  It  seemed  really  to  the  little 
maiden  as  though  she  were  sitting  before  a 
large  iron  stove,  w4th  burnished  brass  feet 
and  a  brass  ornament  at  top.  The  fire  burn- 
ed with  such  blessed  influence  ;  it  warmed 
so  delightfully.  The  little  girl  had  already 
stretched  out  her  feet  to  warm  them  too ;  but 
— the  small  flame  went  out.  the  stove  vanish- 


138  THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL. 

ed:  she  had  only  the  remams  of  the  burnt 

out  match  in  her  hand. 

She  rubbed  another  against  the  wall :  it 

burned  brightly,  and  where   the  light  fell  on 

the  wall,  there  the  wall  became  transparent 

hke  a  veil,  so  that  she  could  see  into  the  room. 

On  the  table  was  spread  a  snow-white  table- 
cloth ;  upon  it  was  a  splendid  porcelain  ser- 
vice, and  the  roast   goose  was  steaming  fa- 
mously  with  its  stuffing  of  apple  and  dried 
plums.     And  what  was  still  more  capital  to 
behold  was,  the  goose  hopped  down  from  the 
dish,  reeled  about  on  the  floor  with  knife  and 
fork  in  its  breast,  till  it  came  up  to  the  poor 
httle  girl ;  when— the  match  went  out  and 
nothmg  but  the  thick,  cold,  damp  wall  was 
left    behind.  1  She    lighted    another    match. 
Now  there  sKe  was  sitting  under  the  most 
magnificent  Christmas  trees  :  it  was  still  larg- 
er, and  more  decorated  than  the   one  which 
she  had  seen  through  the  glass  door  in  the 
rich  merchant's  house. 

^Thousands  of  lights  were  burning  on  the 
green  branches,  and  gaily-colored  pictures, 
such  as  she  had  seen  in  the  shop-windows 


THE    LITTLE    MATCII-GIRL.  139 

looked  down  upon  her.  The  little  maiden 
stretched  out  her  hands  towards  them  when^'^> 
— the  match  went  out.  The  lights  of  the 
Christmas  tree  rose  higher  and  higher,  she 
saw  them  now  as  stars  in  heaven ;  one  fell 
down  and  formed  a  long  trail  of  fire. 

"  Some  one  is  just  dead  !"  said  the  little 
girl ;  for  her  old  grandmother,  the  only  per- 
son who  had  loved  lier,  and  who  was  now 
no  more,  had  told  her,  that  when  a  star  falls, 
a  soul  ascends  to  God. 

She  drew  another  match  against  the  wall : 
it  was  again  light,  and  in  the  lustre  there 
stood  the  old  grandmother,  so  bright  and 
radiant,  so  mild,  and  with  such  an  expression 
of  love. 

"  Grandmother  !"  cried  the  little  one  ;  "  oh, 
take  me  with  you  !  You  go  away  when  the 
match  burns  out ;  you  vanish  like  the  warm 
stove,  like  the  delicious  roast  goose,  and  like 
the  magnificent  Christmas  tree  !"  And  she 
rubbed  the  whole  bundle  of  matches  quickly 
against  the  wall,  for  she  wanted  to  be  quite 
sure  of  keeping  her  grandmother  near  her. 
And  the  matches  gave  such  a  brilhant  hght 
that  it  was  brighter  than  at  noon-day  ;  never 


140  THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL. 

formerly  had  the  grandmother  been  so  beau- 
iful  and  so  tall.  She  took  the  httle  maiden, 
on  her  arm,  and  both  flew  in  brightness  and 
in  joy  so  high,  so  very  high,  and  then  above 

was  neither  cold,  nor  hunger,  nor  anxiety 

they  were  with  God. 

But  in  the  corner,  at  the  cold  hour  of  dawn, 
sat  the  poor  girl,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  with 
a  smiHng  mouth,  leaning  against  the  wall- 
frozen  to  death  on  the  last  evening  of  the  old 
year.  Stiff  and  stark  sat  the  child  there 
with  her  matches,  of  which  one  bundle  had 
been  burnt.  "  She  wanted  to  warm  herself," 
people  said:  no  one  had  the  slightest  sus- 
picion of  what  beautiful  things  she  had  seen  ; 
no  one  even  dreamed  of  the  splendor  in  which, 
with  her  grandmother  she  had  entered  on  the 
joys  of  a  new  year. 


THE   RED   SHOES. 


HERE  was  once  a  little 
girl  who  was  very  pret- 
j^    ty  and  delicate,  but  in 
^  summer    she    was 

forced  to  run  about 
with  bare  feet,  she 
P^=^    was   so   poor,   and 
~~  in  winter  wear  very 

large  wooden  shoes,  which  made  her  little 
insteps  quite  red,  and  that  looked  so  danger- 
ous ! 

In  the  middle  of  the  village  lived  old  Dame 
Shoemaker  ;  she  sate  and  sewed  together,  as 
well  as  she  could,  a  little  pair  ol  shoes  out  of 
old  red  strips  of  cloth  ;  they  were  very  clumsy, 
out  it  was  a  kind  thought.  They  were  meant 
for  the  little  girl.  The  little  girl  was  called 
Karen. 

141 


142  THE    RED    SHOES. 

On  the  very  day  her  mother  was  buried, 
Karen  received  the  red  shoes,  and  wore  them 
for  the  first  time.  They  were  certainly  not 
intended  for  mournmg,  but  she  had  no  others, 
and  with  stockingless  feet  she  followed  the 
poor  straw  coffin  in  them. 

Suddenly  a  large  old  carriage  drove  up, 
and  a  large  old  lady  sate  in  it :  she  looked  at 
the  little  girl,  felt  compassion  for  her,  and 
then  said  to  the  clergyman  : 

"  Here,  give  me  the  little  girl,  I  will  adopt 
her!" 

And  Karen  believed  all  this  happened  on 
account  of  the  red  shoes,  but  the  old  lady 
thought  they  were  horrible,  and  they  were 
burnt.  But  Karen  herself  was  cleanly  and 
nicely  dressed ;  she  must  learn  to  read  and 
sew ;  and  people  said  she  was  a  nice  little 
thing,  but  the  looking-glass  said  :  "  Thou  art 
more  than  nice,  thou  art  beautiful!" 

Now  the  queen  once  traveled  through  the 
land,  and  she  had  her  little  daughter  with 
her.  And  this  little  daughter  was  a  princess, 
and  people  streamed  to  the  castle,  and  Karen 
was  there  also,  and  the  little  princess  stood 
in  her  fine  white  dress,  in  a  window,  and  lei. 


THE    RED    SHOES.  143 

herself  be  stared  at ;  she  had  neither  a  train 
nor  a  golden  crown,  but  splendid  red  morocco 
shoes.  Thej'  were  certainly  far  handsomer 
than  those  Dame  Shoemaker  had  made  for 
little  Karen.  Nothing  in  the  world  can  be 
compared  with  red  shoes. 

Now  Karen  was  old  enough  to  be  confirm- 
ed ;  she  had  new  clothes  and  was  to  have 
new  shoes  also.  The  rich  shoemaker  in  the 
city  took  the  measure  of  her  little  foot.  This 
took  place  at  his  house,  in  his  room  ;  where 
stood  large  glass-cases,  filled  with  elegant 
shoes  and  brilliant  boots.  All  this  looked 
charming,  but  the  old  lady  could  not  see  well, 
and  so  had  no  pleasure  in  them.  In  the  midst 
of  the  shoes  stood  a  pair  of  red  ones,  just 
like  those  the  princess  had  worn.  How  beau- 
tiful they  were  !  The  shoemaker  said  also 
they  had  been  made  for  the  child  of  a  count, 
but  had  not  fitted. 

"That  must  be  patent  leather!"  said  the 
old  lady,  "  they  shine  so  ! " 

"Yes,  they  shine!"  said  Karen,  and  they 
fitted,  and  were  bought,  but  the  old  lady  knew 
nothing  about  their  being  red,  else  she  would 
never  have  allowed  Karen  to  have  gone  in 

ss 


144    ^  THE    RED    SHOES. 

red  shoes  to  be  confirmed.     Yet  such  was  the 
case. 

Everybody  looked  at  her  feet ;  and  when 
she  stepped  through  the  chancel  door  on  the 
church  pavement,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the 
old  figures  on  the  tombs,  those  portraits  of 
old  preachers  and  preachers'  wives,  with  stiflf 
ruffs,  and  long  black  dresses,  fixed  their  eyes 
on  her  red  shoes.  And  she  thought  only  of 
them  as  the  clergyman  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  head,  and  spoke  of  the  holy  baptism,  of 
the  covenant  Avith  God.  and  how  she  should 
be  now  a  matured  Christian  ;  and  the  organ 
pealed  so  solemnly ;  the  sweet  children's  voices 
sang,  and  the  old  music-directors  sang,  but 
Karen  only  thought  of  her  red  shoes. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  old  lady  heard  from 
every  one  that  the  shoes  had  been  red,  and 
she  said  that  it  was  very  wrong  of  Karen,  thai 
it  was  not  at  all  becoming,  and  that  in  future 
Karen  should  only  go  in  black  shoes  to  church, 
even  when  she  should  be  older. 

The  next  Sunday  there  was  the  sacrament, 
and  Karen  looked  at  the  black  shoes,  looked 
at  the  red  ones — looked  at  them  again,  and 
put  on  the  red  shoes. 


THE    RED    SHOES.  145 

riie  sun  shone  gloriously ;  Karen  and  the 
old  lady  walked  along  the  path  through  the 
corn  ;  it  was  rather  dusty  there. 

At  the  church  door  stood  an  old  soldier  with 
a  crutch,  and  with  a  wonderfully  long  beard, 
which  was  more  red  than  white,  and  he  bow- 
ed to  the  ground,  and  asked  the  old  lady 
whether  he  might  dust  her  shoes.  And  Karen 
stretched  out  her  little  foot. 

"See  !  what  beautiful  dancing-shoes  !"  said 
the  soldier,  "  sit  firm  when  you  dance  ;"  and 
he  put  his  hand  out  towards  the  soles. 

And  the  old  "  lady  gave  the  old  soldier  an 
alms,  and  went  into  the  church  with  Karen. 

And  all  the  people  in  the  church  looked  at 
Karen's  red  shoes,  and  all  the  pictures,  aiid 
as  Karen  knelt  before  the  altar,  and  raised 
the  cup  to  her  lips,  she  only  thought  of  the 
red  shoes,  and  they  seemed  to  swim  in  it ; 
and  she  forgot  to  sing  her  psalm,  and  she 
forgot  to  pray,  "Our  father  in  Heaven  !" 

Now  all  the  people  went  out  of  church, 
and  the  old  lady  got  into  her  carriage.  Karen 
raised  her  foot  to  get  in  after  her,  when  the 
old  soldier  said, 

"Look,  what  beautiful  dancing  shoos  !" 
10 


146  THE    RED    SHOES. 

And  Karen  could  not  help  dancing  a  step 
or  two,  and  when  she  began  her  feet  continu- 
ed to  dance ;  it  was  just  as  though  the  shoes 
had  power  over  them.  She  danced  round  the 
church  corner,  she  could  not  leave  off;  the 
coachman  was  obliged  to  run  after  and  catch 
hold  of  her,  and  he  lifted  her  in  the  carriage, 
but  her  feet  continued  to  dance  so  that  she 
trod  on  the  old  lady  dreadfully.  At  length 
she  took  the  shoes  off,  and  then  her  legs  had 
peace. 

The  shoes  were  placed  in  a  closet  at  home, 
but  Karen  could  not  avoid  looking  at  them. 

Now  the  old  lady  was  sick,  and  it  was  said 
she  could  not  recover  ?  She  must  be  nursed 
and  waited  upon,  and  there  was  no  one  whose 
duty  it  was  so  much  as  Karen's.  But  there 
was  a  great  ball  in  the  city,  to  which  Karen 
was  invited.  She  looked  at  the  old  lady, 
who  could  not  recover,  she  looked  at  the  red 
shoes,  and  she  thought  there  could  be  no  sin 
in  it ; — she  put  on  the  red  shoes,  she  might 
do  that  also,  she  thought.  But  then  she 
went  to  the  ball  and  began  to  dance. 

When  she  wanted  to  dance  to  the  right, 
the  shoes  would  dance  to  the  left,  and  when 


THE    RED    SHOES.  147 

she  wanted  to  dance  up  the  room,  the  shoes 
danced  back  again,  down  the  steps,  into  the 
street,  and  out  of  the  city  gate.  She  danced, 
and  was  forced  to  dance  straight  out  into  the 
gloomy  wood. 

Then  it  was  suddenly  hght  up  among  the 
trees,  and  she  fancied  it  must  be  tiie  moon, 
for  there  v/as  a  face ;  but  it  was  the  old  sol- 
dier with  the  red  beard  ;  he  sate  there,  nodded 
his  head,  and  said,  "  Look,  what  beautiful 
dancing  shoes  !" 

Then  she  was  terrified,  and  wanted  to 
fling  off  the  red  shoes,  but  they  clung  fast ; 
and  she  pulled  down  her  stockings,  but  the 
shoes  seemed  to  hav^e  grown  to  her  feet.  And 
she  danced,  and  must  dance,  over  fields  and 
meadows,  in  rain  and  sunshine,  by  night  and 
day ;  but  at  night  it  was  the  most  fearful. 

She  danced  ov^er  the  churchyard,  but  the 
dead  did  not  dance, — they  had  something 
better  to  do  than  to  dance.  She  wished  to 
seat  herself  on  a  poor  man's  grave,  where  the 
bitter  tansy  grew  ;  but  for  her  there  was  nei- 
ther peace  nor  rest ;  and  when  she  danced 
towards  the  open  church  door,  she  saw  an 
angel  standing  there.     He  wore  long,  white 


148  THE    RED    SHOES. 

garments ;  he  had  wings  which  reached  from 
his  shoulders  to  the  earth ;  his  countenance 
was  severe  and  grave ;  and  in  his  hand  he 
held  a  sword,  broad  and  glittering. 

"Dance  shalt  thou!"  said  he, — "dance  in 
thy  red  shoes  till  thou  art  pale  and  cold  !  till 
thy  skin  shrivels  up  and  thou  art  a  skeleton  ! 
Dance  shalt  thou  from  door  to  door,  and 
where  proud,  vain  children  dwell,  thou  shalt 
knock,  that  they  may  hear  thee  and  tremble  ! 
Dance  shalt  thou !" 

"  Mercy  !"  ciioid  Karen.  But  she  did  not 
hear  the  angel's  reply,  for  the  shoes  carried 
her  through  the  gate  into  the  fields,  across 
roads  and  bridges,  and  she  must  keep  ever 
dancing. 

One  morning  she  danced  past  a  door  which 
she  Avell  knew.  Within  sounded  a  psalm  ;  a 
coffin,  decked  with  flowers,  was  borne  forth. 
Then  she  knew  that  the  old  lady  was  dead, 
and  felt  that  she  was  abandoned  by  all,  and 
condemned  by  the  angel  of  God. 

She  danced,  and  she  was  forced  to  dance 
through  the  gloomy  night.  The  shoes  carried 
her  over  stack  and  stone ;  she  was  torn  till 
Bhe  bled  ;  she  danced  over  the  heath  till  she 


THE    RED    SHOES.  149 

came  to  a  little  house.  Here,  she  knew, 
dwelt  the  executioner ;  and  she  tapped  with 
her  fingers  at  the  window,  and  said,  "  Come 
out !  come  out !  I  cannot  come  in,  for  I  am 
forced  to  dance  ! " 

And  the  executioner  said,  "  Thou  dost  not 
know  who  I  am,  I  fancy  ?  I  strike  bad  peo- 
ple's heads  off;  and  I  hear  that  my  axe 
rings !" 

"  Don't  strike  my  head  off ! "  said  Karen, 
"  then  I  can't  repent  of  my  sins  !  But  strike 
off  my  feet  in  the  red  shoes  !" 

And  then  she  confessed  her  entire  sin,  and 
the  executioner  struck  off  her  feet  with  the 
red  shoes,  but  the  shoes  danced  away  with 
the  little  feet  across  the  field  into  the  deep 
wood. 

And  he  carved  out  little  wooden  feet  for 
her,  and  crutches,  taught  her  the  psalm  crimi- 
nals always  sing ;  and  she  kissed  the  hand 
which  had  wielded  the  axe,  and  went  over 
the  heath. 

"  Now  I  have  suffered  enough  for  the  red 
shoes !"  said  she  ;  "  now  I  will  go  into  the 
church  that  people  may  see  me !"    And  she 


150  THE    RED    SHOES. 

hastened  towards  the  church  door  :  but  when 
she  was  near  it,  the  red  shoes  danced  before 
her,  and  she  was  terrified,  and  turned  round. 
The  whole  week  she  was  unhappy,  and  wept 
many  bitter  tears  ;  but  when  Sunday  return- 
ed, she  said,  "  Well,  now  I  have  suffered  and 
struggled  enough  !  I  really  believe  I  am  as 
good  as  many  a  one  who  sits  in  the  church, 
and  holds  her  head  so  high  ! " 

And  away  she  went  boldly ;  but  she  had 
not  got  farther  than  the  churchyard  gate 
before  she  saw  the  red  shoes  dancing  before 
her ;  and  she  was  frightened,  and  turned 
back,  and  repented  of  her  sin  from  her  heart. 

And  she  went  to  the  parsonage,  and 
begged  that  they  would  take  her  into  ser- 
vice ;  she  would  be  very  industrious,  she 
said,  and  would  dfi  everything  she  could  ;  she 
did  not  care  about  the  wages,  only  she  wish- 
ed to  have  a  home,  and  be  with  good  people. 
And  the  clergyman's  wife  was  sorry  for  her 
and  took  her  into  service ;  and  she  was  in- 
dustrious and  thoughtful.  She  sate  still  and 
listened  when  the  clergyman  read  the  Bible 
in  the  evenings.     All  the  children  thought  a 


THE    RED    SHOES.  153 

deal  of  her;  but  when  they  spoke  of  dress, 
and  grandeur,  and  beauty,  she  shook  her 
head. 

The  following  Sunday,  when  the  family 
was  going  to  church,  they  asked  her  whether 
she  would  not  go  with  them  ;  but  she  glanced 
sorrowfully,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  at  her 
crutches.  The  family  went  to  hear  the  word 
of  God  ;  but  she  went  alone  into  her  little 
chamber  ;  there  was  only  room  for  a  bed  and 
chair  to  stand  in  it ;  and  here  she  sate  down 
with  her  prayer-book  ;  and  whilst  she  read 
with  a  pious  mind,  the  wind  bore  the  strains 
of  the  organ  towards  her,  and  she  raised 
her  tearful  countenance,  and  said,  "  O  God, 
help  me ! " 

And  the  sun  shone  so  clearly  !  and  straiglit 
before  her  stood  the  "angel  pf  God  in  white 
garments,  the  same  she  had  seen  that  night 
at  the  church  door  ;  but  he  no  longer  carried 
the  sharp  sword,  but  in  its  stead  a  splendid 
green  spray,  full  of  roses.  And  he  touched 
the  ceiling  with  the  spray,  and  the  ceiling 
rose  so  high,  and  where  he  had  touched  it 
there  gleamed  a  golden  star.  And  he  touch- 
ed the  walls,  and  they  widened  out,  and  she 

tt 


152  THE    RED    SHOES* 

saw  the  organ  which  was  playing ;  she  sa\v 
the  old  pictures  of  the  preachers  and  the 
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XOULISHED  BY  C.  S.  FRANCIS  <fe  CO.,  ITEW  YOkK)k 

PETER  THE  WHALER: 

HIS  EARLY  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES 

-HE  ARCTIC  BEGIONS  AND  OTHER  PARTS  OP  THE  WOftLD 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


CONTENTS  or  THE  OHAPTERS. 

Chap.  I. — An  Account  of  my  Family  and  Early  Life.— 1  neglect 
the  Precepts  of  my  Father,  and  listen  to  an  Evil  Counsellor. 

Chap.  II. — Why  I  went  to  Sea. — I  suffer  in  consequence  of  .Hcting 
opon  the  Advice  of  an  Evil  Counsellor. — I  find  that  it  is  easier  to 
make  a  False  Step  than  to  retrace  it. 

Chap.  III.— I  visit  Liverpool,  and  gain  some  insight  into  the  Waya 
of  the  World. — Am  introduced  to  the  Master  of  the  Black  Swan. 

Chap.  IV.— I  go  on  board  the  Black  Swan,  and  offer  to  make  my- 
self useful ;  but  my  Services  are  not  appreciated.— I  meet  Silas 
Flint,  and  make  the  Acquaintance  of  some  Emigrants. — 1  discover 
that  there  are  others  worse  off  than  myself. 

Chap.  V.— My  first  experience  of  a  Sea  Life. — The  embarkation 
of  Emigrants  for  North  America. — The  First  Mate  reminds  me  that 
[  offered  to  make  myself  useful. — An  Emigrant  Ship. — We  sau, 
and  I  go  aloft  for  the  first  time. — Dick  Derrick's  advice. 

Chap.  VL— Flint  shows  he  has  not  forgotten  me.— .My  first  intro- 
duction to  Ice,  of  which  I  am  destined  to  see  much  more.— A 
Foundering  Ship. 

Chap.  Vil.— i  claim  my  Rights  but  do  not  get  them  acknowledged. 
— Am  treated  as  a  Mutineer. — A  Friend  in  Need. — I  discover  that 
there  are  other  things  to  be  guarded  against  besides  Rocks,  and 
Shoals,  and  Icebergs. — A  Ship  on  Fire. 

Chap.  Vlll. — Consequences  of  the  Want  of  Discipline. — Our  Cap- 
tain deserts  us.— Many  trust  themselves  on  rafts.— Co luage  and 
Coolness  of  our  Second  Mate. 

Chap.  IX.— I  obtain  a  Proof  that  the  Gentle  and  Humane  are 
generally  brave  in  the  Hour  of  Daager. —  A  true  Sailor  will  not 
desert  his  Ship  till  the  last. — Silas  tempts  me  to  go  away  on  the 
Raft. — Aid  comes  when  Hope  has  almost  departed. — A  few  are 
saved,  but  a  bitter  Disappointment  awaits  the  rest. 

Chap.  X. — VV^e  once  more  see  the  Mary. — Our  Hopes  of  Preserv- 
ation are  again  disappointed. — The  F  re  is  extinguished  by  its  more 
powerful  Rival. 

Chap.  XI.— Captain  Dean  and  his  Daughter  a  contrast  to  Captain 
Bwulos  and  Mr.  Stovin. — 1  am  taken  ill,  and  gently  nursed. — VVe 
reach  a  Port  at  last  — A  Description  of  Quebec. — A  conversation 
between  Mary  Dean  and  me. 

Chaps.  XII.  and  XIIL— Adventures  in  Canada  and  the  United 
States. 

Chap.  XIV.— Sail  for  the  Havana.— Captain  Hawk  keeps  h* 
Promise. — A  Surprise.— I  find  that  a  Romantic  Pirate  and  a  Re* 
Pirate  are  very  different  Persoos.— Am  taken  Prisoner. 


Chap.  XV. — Life  on  board  the  Rover. — Indulge  in  the  pleasing 
reflection  that  I  may  possibly  hang  as  a  Pirate. — !  try  to  escape.— 
We  chase. — ^Ve  catch  a  Tartar. — Alark  Antony  tries  to  induce  me 
to  liirn  Pirate.-  We  are  chased. — A  considerable  difference  in  the 
jensLition. 

Chaps.  XVI.,  XV'II.,  and  XV{I[. — Adventures  amon^  the  Pirates. 

CiiAF.  XIX.— Sail  in  the  Pocahontas  Ibrthe  North  J^eas.— An  ac- 
count of  an  American  Man-of-War. — I  become  acquainted  with 
Andrew  Thompson. —  lie  describes  Labrador  to  me. — The  i*rince3s 
Pocahontas. — A  Man  ovor-board. —  How  to  behave  in  the  Water, 

Chap.  XX. —  Ag-ain  Terence  lalJs  from  aloft,  and  is  saved. — We 
reach  the  North  Sea. — The  Birds  of  those  Regions. — I  am  at  the 
Helm. — The  Ship  strikes  an  Iceberg.— Goes  down. — Tlie  Marines 
firing  on  the  Crew. — A  few  alone  escape. 

Chaps.  XXI.  and  XXII. — Nights  and  Days  on  an  Iceberg. 

Chap.  XXfll.— The  Whale  Ship. — I  Join  her. — Description  of  a 
Whaler.— Her  Boats.  Harpoons,  and  other  Gear.— The  Crow's-Nest. 
— All  ready  for  I'ishing. — Reach  a  Field  of  Ice.— Narrow  Escape. 

Chap.  XXIV. — A  Visit  Irora  Father  Neptune.— 1  am  made  free 
of  the  Arctic  Regions.— "•  A  Fall,  a  Fall  I'"— Our  First  Fish.— Tom 
thinks  the  Ship  is  sinking, — Tow  our  Prize  alongside. 

Chap.  XXV. — We  secure  our  Fish.— How  to  carvo  a  Whale. — 
A  Greenland  Shark. —  Arctic  Birds.  —  A  South-Sea  Whaler. — A 
Bear  in  a  Boat. 

Chap.  XXV'I. — Joined  by  other  Ships, — Land  seen. — Cape  Fly- 
away.--Danish  Colonies. —Visited  by  Esquimaux. — We  land.— 
Begin  to  struggle  with  the  Ice. — Fishing  on  the  Ice. — Made  fast  to 
an  Iceberg. — Cut  through  a  Field  of  Ice. — Preparations  for  a  Nip. 

Chap.  XXVIi. — The  Nip  come.— A  Ship  nipped. — Go  to  her  aid. 
—Rescue  our  Countrymen.— Forecastle  Varus  about  Shipwrecks 
and  Whale-Catching. — The  Nip  takes  off  and  we  are  free.— A  Beau 
tiful  Scene. 

Chap.  XXVIII. — Pond's  Ray. — A  run  of  Whales.— More  Fishing. 
— Sea  Unict)rns. — A  fast  Fish. — Leave  the  Bay. —  An  Account  of 
some  Arctic  Expeditions,  sent  in  search  of  Sir  John  Franklin  and 
his  brave  Companions. 

Chaps.  XXIX.  and  XXX.  Adventures  in  the  Northern  Regions. 

CuAP.  XXXI. — Our  Join-ney  continued.— A  VVreck  discovered. — 
We  find  Treasures  on  board. —  Look  out  for  a  Spot  to  land. —  Fix 
on  a  Spot,  and  build  a  Hut.— Go  back  to  the  Ship,  to  fetch  more 
Stoies. —  Find  Visitors  on  board  the  Ship. — More  Bear's  Flesh. 

Chaps.  XXXIL,  XXXIIL,  XXXIV.,  and  XXXV.— Adventuj-efl 
among  the  Esquimaux. 

Chap.  XXX  VI. —  We  begin  our  Vessel. — The  Esquimaux  regiet 
►o  lose  us. —  Andrew  urges  us  not  to  work  on  a  Sunday.- Capa- 
♦>ility  ot  the  Esquimaux  for  receiving  thy  Truths  of  Christianity 
-We  complete  our  Vessel.— Provision  and  store  her.— Our  Vessel 
ttestroyed. — A  Ship  in  the  Clouds. — Farewell  to  the  Esquimau.x.— 
Voyage.— VVreck. — Reach  my  lather's  Home  a  Beggar. — No  one 
U  Home. — Meet  Captain  Dean. — Return  once  more  to  my  Family 


ffvamis  U  Co.'s  aittle  Uilirars. 

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L.  MARIA  CHILD.— Flowers  FOR  Children:  No.  l,forCbil- 
dren  ei^ht  or  nine  years  old. 

Flowers  for  Children:  No.  2,  for  Children  tUreo  or  foui 

years  old. 
Flowers    for  Children  :  No.  3,  for  Children  eleven  or 

twelve  years  old. 
MARY   HOWITT.— Fireside  Tales. 

The  Christmas  Tree:  A  Book  of  Stories. 

The  Ti'RTLE  Dove  of  Carmel;  and  other  Stories. 

The  Favorite  Scholar  ;  Little  Chatterbox  ;  Perse- 
verance, and  other  Tales.  By  Mary  Howitt,  Mra.  S. 
C.  Hall,  and  others. 

MRS.  TRIMMER.— The  Robbins;  or  Domestic  Life  among 
the  Birds.  Itesitrned  for  the  Instruction  of  Children 
respecting  their  Treatment  of  Animals. 

MISS  LESLIE. — KussEL  and  Sidney  and  Chase  Lorinq 
Taltjs  of  the  American  Revolution. 

MRS.  CAROLINE  OILMAN.- The  Little  Wreath  oi 
Stories  and  Poems  for  Children. 

Stories  and  Poems  for  Children. 

HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN.— A  Christmas  Greet 
iNo:  Thirteen  New  Stories  from  tlie  Danish  of  Ham 
Christian  Andersen. 

A  Picture  Book  without  Pictures  ;  ana  v^mer  Stories 

by    Hans    Christian    Andersen.    Translated  by   Mau7 
Howitt,  with  a  Memoir  of  the  Author. 

A  Danish  Story  Book. 

CLAUDINE  ;  or  Humility  the  Basis  of  all  the  Virtues. 
A  Swiss  Tale.  By  a  Mother;  author  of  "Always  Hap- 
py," "  True  Stories  from  History,"  &c. 

FACTS  TO  CORRECT  FANCIES;  or  Short  Narratives 
compiled  fiom  the  Memoirs  of  Remarkable  Women. 
Bv  a  Mother. 

HOLIDAY  STORIES.     Containing  five  Moral  Tales. 

MRS  HOFLAND.— The  History  of  an  Officer's  Widow 
and  her  ^'oung  Family. 

The  Clkruyman's  Widow,  and  her  Young  Family. 

The  Mkr(  hant's  Widow,  and  her  Young  Family. 

MISS  ABBOT,— Kate  and  Lizzie;   or    Six  Months  out  or 

School. 
MISS   ELIZA    ROBBINS.— Classic  Tales.    Designed  for  tbo 

Instruction  and  Amusement  of  Young  Persons.    By  the 

author  of  "American  Popular  Lessons,"  &c. 
MRS.  S.   C.   HALL.— Turns  of  Fortune;  All  is  not  Oolp 

that  (Jlitteps,  &c. 
'*'"■  Private  Purse;  Ci.kvernkss.  a/id  other  Tales. 


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'>k. 


mm  1 8  1988 


REC'D  LD-URL 
ION     JUL^'e'SS 

i\    feYn7199{ 
JUN23'97    REC 


RENEWALS 


4WKAPR2  8  1991 


012000 

R   I3   REC'D       :OOAIVI 


/ 


3  1158  00455  7285 


